


A Family Affair

by Kevin_Mask (Nikolai_Knight)



Category: Kinnikuman, Kinnikuman Nisei | Ultimate Muscle
Genre: Accidental Incest, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Family Drama, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2020-09-19 03:35:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 41,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20324431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nikolai_Knight/pseuds/Kevin_Mask
Summary: Robin needed to know.He would not react well to his baby boy sleeping with his best friend, but they knew he would react worse to the realisation that  the relationship could no longer be broken: Warsman was pregnant. It would be enough for any family to deal with, but little did they realise that there were more issues at play . . . family secrets yet to be uncovered.





	1. Chapter 1

_‘Hey, what’re you waiting here for?’_

_Kevin winced. He clenched and unclenched his fists, while his teeth gnawed on the inside of his cheek. The taste of iron flooded his mouth, as the nails of his fingers dug into his palm, and soon crescent-shaped cuts graced his pale flesh. It was quiet within the stadium. The only sounds were that of a gavel in a nearby meeting, and grunts and groans from a few stragglers who were late to training and late to leave for home. He swallowed hard. _

_Mantaro remained in his peripheral vision, where he leaned against a wall. There was a nasty bruise on his upper arm, while his split lip was visible beneath his mask, and his blue one-piece suit was torn from the intense sparring match. He clasped his hands behind his head, although his body was angled towards the office door. The looming oak door stood high, with its doorknob central like a focal point, but – no matter how they stared – no sound leaked out of its frame. Kevin sighed and kicked at the floor. He said coldly:_

_‘I’m waiting for Daddy to finish in his meeting.’_

_‘Well, don’t look so worried,’ laughed Mantaro. ‘I bet he’ll be out of there in like twenty minutes tops, and then he’ll go back to those weird conversations you two have about the weather. Like, it’s raining, we get it! What else is there to say? It’s so weird.’_

_Kevin smiled beneath his mask. He raised a hand to his temple, where he rubbed against the steel, and – lowering his head – a sharp ache ran through his shoulder-blade, like a continuous jabbing presence against a sensitive muscle . . . Warsman would usually massage away the kink after his matches. Kevin moved a hand to his shoulder. It rested with a light touch, just above the cracked armour, and his eyes returned to that large door. His heart raced a little quicker. His mouth grew a little drier. He rapidly blinked._

_‘Seriously, it’ll be fine,’ said Mantaro._

_A cool silence fell between them. A loud bang echoed about the office. It sounded like a slam of a fist upon a desk, or maybe a palm against a cheek, and Kevin tensed his muscles until the pain in his shoulder radiated down his nerves and into his spine. He marched to the door and dropped his hand onto the doorknob. He pulled it back. The hand lingered between his body and the door, as his fingers trembled and he choked out in a low voice:_

_‘Fine . . . right.’_

* * *

Robin paced back and forth.

A slow trickle of blood dripped down his hand. It left a red line down bruising skin, as the side of his hand throbbed in time to his heart, and his desk . . . _usually so spotless, so perfectly organised . . . _bore proof of where his fist slammed down. A deep crack ran down the mahogany surface, while the leather pad was torn so that its insides were visible. The papers were scattered about the carpet. A paperweight lay shattered on the floor.

He stopped just before the window. The panes were misted over with a fine rain, which distorted the world beyond and cast the office in intricate shadows, and – with the encroaching night-time – the sky was almost black with clouds. A sliver of the moon peeked out from the distance, casting a small glimmer of hope for a peaceful night. He lowered his head. The outside of the arena boasted a small group, where the light of Rinko’s cigarette and the blond of Kid’s hair betrayed that their meeting was of a social nature . . .

The world spun on, even when his world stopped.

Robin brought his hands to his mouth, while he breathed slow and deep. The rush of adrenaline brought an imperceptible tremor to his fingers, while bright spots of colour danced about his vision, and his body slowly swayed as his head grew light-headed, until he dropped a hand on the back of his leather chair. He spun it around and fell into its hold. Robin shook his head. The chair dipped a little with his weight, as he parted his legs and rested his hands upon his thighs, and he stared hard at the corner of the office with an unblinking gaze.

“My Kevin?” Robin asked. “You’re sleeping with _my_ Kevin?”

Warsman said nothing. He kept remarkably still before the desk. Even as Robin turned his chair to lock eyes with him, there was no sign of recognition or remorse behind that metallic mask, and his white eyes remained wide open and fixed forward. There was a slight change to the rhythm of his breath, and the muscles in his arms bulged in places, as the veins across the backs of his hands stood out in a prominent manner. Robin pressed his palms flat upon his desktop, while he swallowed hard and lifted his chin. Warsman shrugged.

“Kevin is his own person,” said Warsman.

“Yes, but he’s _my_ boy.”

“Is that perhaps not the issue?” Warsman lowered his gaze. “You see him as a ‘boy’. Do you forget that he is twenty? He is not much younger than when Terry was going through his womanising phase, or when Suguru entered into a life-or-death competition, and Brocken was younger than him when he watched his father die before his eyes.”

“Suguru and Brocken were forced into their predicaments. They did not choose to court dangers, Nikolai, and being coerced into a position of responsibility isn’t the same as being _ready_ for that level of responsibility! You can’t compare apples and oranges.”

“You dated Alisa while you were in university. Terry dated –”

“Alisa was my junior by a few years at most, not . . . not _forty_!” Robin threw himself back. “Terry and Natsuko are roughly the same age, and Suguru is only four years older than Bibimba. Do you honestly not understand my concern? You bloody held Kevin in your arms when he was born! You changed him. You fed him. Now you’re –”

Robin cut off his sentence. He clenched his jaw, until his teeth ached, and stared down at his hands until his vision blurred and doubled. He rapidly blinked. A few tears obscured his sight, thankfully hidden behind the black mesh of his mask, but still he wrapped his arms around his chest and crossed his legs at the knees. A family photograph stood at the far corner of his desk . . . immortalised behind the glass was Kevin in his school uniform, on the first day of his private education, and his four-year old smile was hidden behind his mask.

A tear ran down his mask, soaking into the foam that supported the steel mask. He reached out to brush a scarred and callused finger over the still image . . . _years lost, so much missed, a lifetime of regret as his boy became a man . . . _Robin screwed shut his eyes, before he slammed down the photo-frame. He wrenched back a trembling hand. The blood was slowly clotting, but the pain remained and the tears were bitter on his wet lips.

“You look angry,” observed Warsman.

“I’m hardly a happy chappy,” spat Robin. “You were an active part of his childhood, mate. I also asked you to act as his trainer . . . _his mentor_ . . . do you honestly not see how this is basically like grooming . . . wife husbandry? You’re old enough to be his father!”

“He is also twenty years old. He is capable of informed consent, especially when he has experienced the world and met a multitude of people, and is aware of the societal stigma and the potential ramifications of a relationship. You make this sound like a form of incest, but I have not – nor will I ever be – his father. _You_ are his father, Robin.”

“Yes, I _am_. That’s another reason why I object to this . . . we’ve never had the best of relationships, and then there comes along an older man that offers him attention and attends to his needs and provides emotional support and -? Look, I don’t know what you_ think_ this is, but it’s clear that he’s just using you to fulfil a need . . . redoing a bad childhood . . .”

“Well, he has certainly never called _me_ ‘Daddy’.” Warsman rolled his eyes. “By your logic, could not a person his age fulfil that same role? Would you deny him Mars as a friend, as Mars – being older and a role-model – could be a father-like figure to him?”

“Look, what are you even getting from this, Nikolai?”

Warsman clasped his hands before his stomach. They rested on firm muscle that stood well the test of time, with only a slight softening and miniscule weight gain indicating his advancing age, and perhaps his perfect physique was the reason – unlike his peers – why his uniform was so unchanged through the years. There was nothing to hide. Robin gnawed at his lip, while he narrowed his eyes and cocked his head to the side. He adjusted the pens on his desk, as he moved them into a perfectly parallel line, while Warsman shifted from foot to foot.

“Kevin understands me,” said Warsman. “I do not age, as you have noticed, and people judge me based upon how they perceive me. I am judged daily for being a _chojin_, and even among our kind I am often judged for my cyborg nature, but now people assume my age and judge me further based upon that, but Kevin -? He sees me for who I am at heart.”

“So you feel wanted and validated? What about Kevin?” Robin sighed. “He’s young. I doubt he’s thinking about settling down with kids and a wedding, and even if you don’t want those things, he will one day, which means you’d only have to break up again anyway.”

“Why do you assume what type of relationship we possess?”

“So – what – this is casual? Only about sex?”

A low hiss escaped Warsman, like an exhale through flared nostrils. The pad of his thumb rubbed against his skin, with a slow rhythm and noticeable presence, and his legs parted with the stance of one prepared for battle. Robin tensed. He lifted his head and angled his body, as his eyes darted to the journal on his bookshelf . . . _‘prone to anger; easy to rile, his greatest weakness, but quick reflexes needed to avoid brutal attacks’ _. . .

Robin shook his head. The instinct to fight was deeply ingrained, but neither man would dare raise a hand to the other outside of the ring. He pushed back his chair. A sharp ache penetrated his joints as he stood, radiating outward with a burning and pulsing sensation, and slowly he walked in front of the desk and rested his buttocks on its edge. He folded his arms and crossed his legs at the ankles, as he locked eyes with Warsman opposite him. The quickening of his heart caught up in his throat. Warsman whispered:

“Will you at least tell me what concerns you most?”

“He’s my boy, Nikolai.” Robin touched at the photo-frame. “It doesn’t matter how old he gets, because he’ll always be my responsibility, and I’ll always have a duty to protect him and keep him safe from harm. How do I know that he _is_ able to consent? I don’t know if he’s mistaking types of love . . . does he feel something filial or platonic, but is merely confused with something romantic? Does he even feel he can say ‘no’ to you?

“You were his _manager _and_ trainer_. He couldn’t say no to you, and he didn’t say no to you! I know for a fact that if you told him to jump, he’d ask how high, and he even injured himself during training because of his blind faith in you. If you suggest something sexual, is he going to ignore his doubts and go ahead with it because he thinks he _should_? A lack of a ‘no’ does not mean a ‘yes’. I don’t want my son agreeing to be with you, just because he’s afraid of disappointing you or it’s ingrained in him to obey. The lines are too blurred.”

“I do not see how I could convince you this is not the case.” Warsman looked down. “Even if I separated with Kevin, and he chose to date other people to experience romance in all its forms, and even if we came back together years later . . . would not your complaints still stand? I cannot undo that I was ever his trainer, but nothing was instigated until _after_ our professional bond was severed. Even _you_ held rank over Alisa when you met.”

“We were both students,” spat Robin.

“You were in your final year and team captain, but she was a fresher.”

Robin sighed. A framed photograph hung next to the office door . . . _Alisa and Robin and Nikolai, just before Robin lost his life to Nemesis, all smiles and hugs and laughter _. . . Robin swallowed hard and pressed together trembling lips. The tears mingled with sweat and stung at his eyes, distorting the sight of the photograph and causing the three people to merge into one amorphous creature and – with a wince – he snapped away his gaze. Robin rubbed at the mouth-piece of his mask, as he heaved a shuddered breath. He gasped out:

“And what about our friendship?”

Warsman dropped his shoulders. He stepped back. Robin opened his mouth and reached a hand towards him, only to let it fall at the last second and slap against the desk, and – as the wound caught the wood – he flinched and cupped his hand to his chest. A clock ticked loudly from the mantelpiece, counting away the seconds. Warsman drew in quick and jerky breaths. The office grew ever darker, now only illuminated by a desk-light that cast long shadows, and yet neither man dared move to turn on the overhead light. Warsman shrugged.

“I do not see why that must change,” said Warsman.

“Don’t you?” Robin scoffed. “We can hardly talk about relationships now, can we? I really _don’t_ want to hear about your sexcapades with my son, and anything I tell you about Alisa would be a conflict of interests, because do you betray my trust or keep secrets from Kevin? I also would see you less, unless you want to tell Kevin you’re seeing the man he detests.”

“He does not detest you. He grieves as you grieve, Robin.”

“Don’t you understand that you’re taking advantage? Imagine if Alisa had been the one to die, but – unlike us – she never came back . . . wouldn’t you be against me dating Kid or Seiuchin or even Mantaro? Now, would you bloody ask yourself _why_?”

Warsman paced. He hunched forward as he moved, which exaggerated the new weight to his frame and darkened his skin with the extra shadows, and he was almost a ghost in the darkness, whose presence was marked only by his breaths that verged on hyperventilation. A few fresh tears spilled hot from Robin, where they rolled over his cheeks and rested on the corners of his lips. They left a bitter taste. Warsman spun around and placed hands on his hips, while he lifted his head high and rolled back his shoulders and he said in a cold voice:

“I will not leave Kevin. I love him too much.”

“I’m asking you – _as a friend_ – to leave Kevin . . . please.”

A knock sounded at the door. Robin called out a _‘just a moment’, _as two young voices bickered and complained from behind the wooden surface, and – around them – life continued with the usual mundane nature of a workplace. A low laugh spilled from his lips mingling with his cries and obscuring them in the process. He ran a hand over his face, while his shook his head and his lips pulled into an eerie smile, and the lines about his mouth and eyes deepened, betraying his advanced age beneath his mask. Warsman muttered:

“And if I don’t leave Kevin?”

“If you don’t leave Kevin, I can’t guarantee our friendship will remain.” Robin winced. “I have to put my son first, and I can’t bring myself to support something – or someone – that would harm him in any way, and this . . . this can’t end well, Nikolai. It can’t.”

“We are both mature to end it amicable, were it to end.”

“No, _you’re _mature enough, Nikolai, but Kevin . . .”

Robin shook his head. He clapped a hand on Warsman’s shoulder, as he slowly walked past him with body limp and head hung low, and his fingers lingered as he stepped away, before slowly falling from place and cold with the absence of Warsman’s warmth. He marched to the door. There was no second-glance . . . no hesitation . . . to look behind would be to see the potential loss, and already a cold lump formed in his throat. Robin threw open the door wide. He stopped. Kevin and Mantaro stood just before him, both waiting . . . patient . . .

A low and quiet laugh escaped him, until it turned into something low and dark. It broken through the air and silenced all those around him, while his eyes burrowed into the man that was still but a boy to him . . . the boy he held, the boy he trained, the boy he loved . . . tears spilled down his cheeks. The mask stuck his flesh, uncomfortable and sticky. He marched onward, pushing past them, as he knew – _he knew_ – a single spoken word would betray the weeping fit that threatened to break through and reveal his emotional state to the world.

“Daddy?” Kevin cried out. “Daddy, I’m sorry!”

The words cut like a knife. He brought his injured hand to his chest, where he cradled it with its twin, and – from instinct alone – his thumb applied pressure to the wound, casting a sharp needle like pain through his limbs and staving back the tears. Kevin chased after him for several long steps, until he darted around the corner of the corridor. The shadow of Kevin lingered. It filled the entire hallway, as Robin all but ran to the door at the far end, and in his peripheral vision a hand came up in search of him. It hit nothing, even as Kevin screamed:

“_Daddy, don’t go_!”


	2. Chapter 2

Music blared . . .

It was an old – yet familiar – tune. There was a strong melody, as he nodded his head in time to the beat, and faint memories drifted into the forefront of his mind . . . _a vinyl record turning by the fireplace, strong arms around him as he bounced on a knee, a feminine voice singing from the kitchen _. . . a low scoff escaped his lungs. He parted his legs. He rested his arms upon his knees, while he swirled the bottle of beer lazily between them.

The sloshing of liquid merged with the drums. The stench of alcohol lingered in the park, while the strong wind caught at the neck of the bottle, and – as it struck the wet glass – a howling noise echoed out and reverberated around him. Kevin rolled his head back and forth, before he downed the last of the brown liquid. The shack was lit bright, so that it illuminated the park and cast long shadows to the trees on its edges, and his body was nothing more than a black silhouette, as the shade consumed him. A dark laugh escaped him.

Just beside him, someone cleared their throat . . .

It took a great deal of energy to lift his head. The sheer weight caused it to loll, while his eyes struggled to focus, and his nostrils flared and his lips pursed, while his body shuffled from side to side and his hand lifted to gesticulate in an inarticulate manner. Warsman leaned against the bark of an old tree. He stood with arms folded and eyes focussed on Kevin, while the slow and steady sound of his breaths provided a reassuring constant, like a metronome or the coming and going of waves on a shore. Kevin clenched at his bottle.

“I knew I would find you here,” said Warsman.

Kevin swallowed hard. He flung the bottle hard towards the park, where it smashed just beside the ring and scattered into hundreds of small pieces, and – in the light of the shack – they glittered and twinkled like a solar system of stars. Kevin threw back his head and stared up at the skies. Warsman sat beside him, with his legs stretched out and his hands lightly clasped over the small swell of his stomach. He stared up at the skies in turn, even while Kid started a rendition of ‘Sweet Home, Alabama’ from inside the small shack. He asked:

“You did not want to go inside?”

A low hiss of breath rushed out. Kevin fell sideways, where he dropped his head onto a broad shoulder, and a cool hand came to rest against his neck, as Warsman entwined his fingers into blond locks of hair. The scent of fried street-foods drifted in the air, as Seiuchin ran through the park only a few feet from them with begs laden with delicious treats, and – as he banged heavily on the shack door – Checkmate greeted him with a warm smile. They failed to see him in the shadows. The door closed, leaving the group once more invisible.

“I’m not in the bloody mood for group sympathies.”

“They are your friends,” said Warsman.

“Yeah? Well, Daddy was your friend, too.” Kevin rolled his eyes. “As far as I’m concerned, the only people you can trust in life boils down to no one . . . you can’t even trust yourself, not in this day and age, and I learned _that_ the hard way with Mars, too. What’s the point in me going in there and spilling my guts like they can do jack-shit about it?”

“It could relieve your burden to share it with your colleagues. There is a sense of catharsis that comes from talking about one’s troubles, not to mention the possibility that they may be able to offer advice based on their shared experiences. What have you to lose?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t _you_ tell me?”

Warsman glared. The hand on Kevin’s neck pulled away slowly. He gently extricated himself from Kevin and stood once more, where he walked about the edges of the park and stopped opposite the shack, where – through a cracked door – the party was clearly visible. Gazelleman complained about the lack of vegetarian food, while Rinko flirted with Jade, and Mars downed alcohol in the corner with rolls of his eyes. A cold silence fell between them, broken only by the chuckles and gossip from within that shack. Warsman whispered:

“Why are _you_ taking things out on me?”

Kevin struggled to his feet. He swayed and stumbled, forced to grab at the tree behind him for balance, before he fell forward and entered a forced sprint, lest he tumble over with the lack of balance and blurred vision. He stopped only when his hands tangled around Warsman’s upper arm, which helped him to remain upright. A smile broke over his lips. Kevin came behind Warsman and threw his arms around his neck, as he hugged him tight.

“I’m sorry,” mumbled Kevin.

Warsman entwined their fingers, while his rough and callused fingertips stroked light circles against Kevin’s palm with an easy intimacy, and – with a long sigh escaping his lips – he leaned back his head and rested it on Kevin’s shoulder. They relied on each other for support, as they stood locked in a warm embrace on the cold night. Kevin placed a mock kiss to that long column of neck. He grumbled at the obstruction of his mask, which brought laughter from Warsman, even as he visibly fought back tears and audibly swallowed.

“I have lost my closest friend,” said Warsman.

“I’m sorry for that, too.” Kevin winced. “It’s all my bloody fault. I just thought with everything going on that . . . well . . . we can’t exactly hide it any more, can we? I just . . . I guess . . . he’s still my father, Nikolai! I didn’t expect him to pissing jump for joy, but I thought he’d at least . . . at least . . . at least he wouldn’t walk away from me . . .”

“I believe he was too choked up with emotion, if that helps.”

“Isn’t that the point of a parent?” Kevin ran his hand over his mask. “I thought they were meant to be strong for their sons, so that they could love them and protect them, and instead he always fucking walks away from me! It’s like he’s giving up on me all over again, and I bet I can imagine what he said . . . I bet he’s angrier that I’ve corrupted his best friend than he is about anything else. _You_ he loves. _Mother_ he loves. Does he even love me, though?”

“It is because he loves you that he walked away. I believe he was on the verge of tears when he left, as he still sees you as his boy and thinks that you cannot consent to a relationship with someone of my age, and it is me that he blames for having corrupted you, Kevin. I just wish that I could choose with whom I fall in love, because – as much as I adore you and what we have – I feel torn for being forced to choose between two men I so admire.”

“You shouldn’t have to fucking choose, though!”

“I should not, but I can understand why I must.” Warsman winced. “It would put Robin in a difficult situation. What if – for example – I hurt you in some manner? What if you hurt me or left me? It would force Robin to take sides, and already he feels conflicted and struggles to reconcile my role as his friend with the one who he perceives as having betrayed him.”

Kevin huffed. He pulled back and clenched his fists. The veins bulged on the back of his skin, as his knuckles turned a deathly white, and – with his breathing growing faster and faster – he shot his hands toward Warsman’s upper arms and spun him around. The sudden gesture nearly knocked Warsman off balance, but he caught Kevin’s waist and locked eyes with those behind the black-and-red mesh of the mask. Kevin rapidly blinked. A broken smile crossed his lips, as he reached up to clasp Warsman’s cheeks and stroked at the hard metal.

They held onto each other under the stars. The artificial light of Tokyo cast Warsman with a soft glow, while the brief slither of moonlight caught at the swell of his stomach, and Kevin pressed their masks together in an approximation of a kiss, while a whispered ‘I love you’ was almost lost to the wind. Warsman nuzzled into his touch, even as his hands worked their way upward from those hips and onto the muscles of Kevin’s back. Kevin mumbled:

“You’re grieving the loss of your friendship . . .”

“How can I not, Kevin? _How can I not_?”

A tear rolled down Warsman’s cheek. He moved his head as if to speak, but a loud squeal interrupted any train of thought and stopped the conversation dead. Both men darted apart, as the door to the shack opened and bright light illuminated the park, and Mantaro fell out with Jacqueline being pulled in tow. The two of them were intoxicated. They found any excuse to touch and flirt, as they giggled and joked and teased one another, oblivious to anyone else.

Kevin cleared his throat. Mantaro jumped away from Jacqueline, as a rapid-fire apology spilled from his throat, and Jacqueline flushed a deep shade of red, while she muttered some obvious excuse in an attempt to appear confident and disinterested. Once their eyes focussed, they looked from Kevin to Warsman. They dropped their shoulders with simultaneous sighs. Mantaro laughed and wafted his hand in the air, while Jacqueline rubbed her hands together and breathed warm air on them. Kevin ignored the signal from Mantaro to come closer.

“Yo, Kevin!” Mantaro smiled. “Come join us, dude!”

“I’m a little busy right now, Mantaro.”

“Yeah, but Warsman can join in, too!” Mantaro bounced on his heels. “Like, sure, it’s kind of weird, but he’s your boyfriend now, right? You look so sad, and that’s super hard with a metal mask, so – I don’t know – you should come find something to smile about!”

“Mantaro’s right,” said Jacqueline. “You’re meant to be every girl’s knight in bloodied armour! Look, I know you two are busy moping about, but you’ve both conquered so much in life and you’ll conquer this, too. Who cares what Robin or anyone else thinks? If I cared what my father or brother thought, I know I’d be a whole other person and not . . . _me_.”

“That’s a rather naïve viewpoint,” muttered Kevin.

“Is it? I’m not saying that it’ll be easy, but just . . . everyone else already knew, and no one else batted an eyelid about the situation. You were carrying around Chloe’s mask at parades, giving it the place of honour, and you took it into matches with you for a good luck charm. I know no one said anything, but why would they? What you do is your business.”

Kevin ran his hands over his mask . . . _headlines speculating on affair between mentor and mentee, whispers during training and questions about who he was seeing, disapproving gazes from the older generation as they walked by . . . _now it seemed so obvious. Most people had already known. Most people had just accepted their relationship. Kevin stared down at the ground, where he kicked at the dirt, and he bit into his lip until he tasted iron. Jacqueline nudged Mantaro in his side and nodded towards the shack, before she held onto his hand. 

“We’ll wait for you guys inside,” said Jacqueline.

They slowly made their way back inside, leaving him with the question: _why couldn’t Daddy accept our love? _Kevin pressed his fingers to his temples. He paced back and forth, with his head low and muscles tensed, and his jaw ached from how tightly he ground his teeth. Warsman stopped him with hands upon his shoulders. He looked up into those burning white eyes, as he fought back a growing nausea that burned the back of his throat. Kevin asked: 

“Do you think she knows?”

“About the pregnancy? I very much doubt that.”

Kevin huffed. He slowly slid his hand down Warsman’s chest, until it stopped among an almost noticeable swell, and the skin was surprisingly firm, nothing like fat that came from other means, but instead . . . something that spoke only of new life. Kevin smiled, while his fingers traced the growing stretch-marks. He pressed a chaste kiss to Warsman’s cheek. There was still a wet trail down the metal, where the tears had fallen, and he wiped them away with his free hand, while Warsman hummed and whispered his thanks.

“Why?” Kevin asked. “Why not tell my father?”

“How could I tell him that?” Warsman kissed at his head. “Your sole income, outside of your winnings, stems from your grandfathers . . . Robin Knight would not approve of a pregnancy outside of marriage, while Paul Mackintosh would not approve of your relationship with a chojin. You would risk being cut off, which would be a hindrance.”

“Mum and Aunt Laura wouldn’t see us destitute, and – even if they did – I have plenty saved from my various winnings to support a family, even if I never competed again. Still, I don’t think we’re going to be able to hide it for much longer, Nikolai. I – I think I should talk to Mum about this . . . it’s possible she can turn Daddy around, but even if she can’t -? I think I need someone to talk to about all . . . _this_. My friends haven’t exactly . . .”

“Been through anything like this? No, mine either.” Warsman chuckled. “I would talk to Robin, but I feel that would be a bad idea at this moment in time. I cannot ask Suguru . . . he would tell Robin out of a sense of obligation, and I do not feel that this is something I could discuss with Terry. I can fully empathise with your need to talk to one who understands.”

Kevin held Warsman tight. The growing stomach between them was a constant reminder of their new responsibilities and a new hope for the future, but still Kevin’s chest ached with a heavy pressure, as if a heavy weight were pressed upon his ribs. A cold sweat broke over his skin, soaking his clothes to his flesh until they become one. He breathed deep the scent of cologne. A trembling smile crept over him, even as he forced back a painful lump in his throat, as he recognised the scent as a gift given by Robin and Alisa the previous Christmas.

“I just feel so alone,” whispered Kevin.

He shook his head . . . _no family holidays, no visits to the grandparents, no group photographs hanging over the mantelpiece . . . _there was no harder thing to imagine than raising his child without the grandparents that were a staple of his memories. Warsman cupped his chin and gently raised his head, until he was able to press a kiss to his forehead and run his fingers through long locks of blond hair. He whispered in a soft voice:

“I will never leave you, my love.”  



	3. Chapter 3

The weights bore heavy upon him . . .

A deep ache tore into the muscle, as his forearms trembled under the strain. He counted under his breath . . . _‘one, two, three, four, five, exhale’ _. . . too many breaths were lost, while the heavy sweat dripped down his bare chest and onto the leather bench, and his veins bulged from beneath his skin like thick ropes. The barbell hovered a few inches above him, until – with a heavy gasp – it was shoved upwards and held with a wavering position.

Spots darted across his vision. He fought to keep his eyes open. The bar wavered back and forth, back and forth, and a sharp stab of pain tore into the muscle of his shoulder, as if a white hot poker penetrated the flesh . . . the barbell collapsed. It crashed towards his chest with rapid speed, although time ground to a halt around him . . . _the thick steel inching closer to his chest, his heart smashing against his ribcage, the cold sweat that came with the adrenaline rush . . . _Kevin lay prone and helpless. The barbell would crush him.

A quick blur rushed before him . . .

He remained frozen in place, until his eyes finally focussed again. There were a pair of muscular arms on either side of his head, so close that he could feel the heat from them against his cheeks, and they stopped the barbell just a mere millimetre from crushing against his chest and breaking his sternum. Kevin tilted back his head. Mantaro stood behind him with his face pulled into a scowl, before he hoisted the barbell back into its resting position, and leaned down over Kevin until his tuft of hair dangled forward. He spat out:

“Dude, you’re not supposed to do this without a spotter!”

Kevin rolled his eyes. He struggled to sit upright, while his body – soaked with sweat, flushed red with exertion – rocked and swayed, and small groans escaped his throat, which tasted thick with bile and iron on a rough tongue. Kid stood at the end of the bench, with a bottle of protein-shake visible in his outstretched hand. Kevin snatched it with a lazy throw, before he jammed the straw under his mask and gulped down as much as every breath would allow, until it caught in his throat and he started to choke under the liquid. Kid laughed:

“Hey, easy there, cowpoke!”

A few long splutters cleared his windpipe. Mantaro wiped down the bench with little subtlety, before tossing the towel straight at Kevin’s face, and – after a momentary blindness – he pulled it away and wiped down his body with a few muttered complaints. Kid ordered him to sip and not gulp, which he obeyed without any word in response. Mantaro and Kid shared a look. No, they share _the_ look. It was the look of ‘something is wrong, but I’m not going to be the one to say something first’. Kevin laughed, as he hunched forward and shrugged.

“I’m fine,” snapped Kevin.

“Yo, you don’t look fine.” Mantaro waved a hand before his face, which Kevin slapped away with a loud huff. “Hey! I’m just saying, you look like you’ve been drinking, plus . . . you were working out when _we_ got in for training, which was like an hour ago! How long have you been lifting weights? Chloe – er – _Warsman_ is going to kill you, pal.”

“Yeah, yer supposed to have a spotter and keep hydrated,” added Kid. “It’s like basic one-oh-one, but here ya are working harder than a cowboy trying t’ lasso his first bull in the Alabama summer. What’s got into ya, Kevin? Ain’t like you t’ forget the basics.”

“I’m just a wee bit jet-lagged. I was in England.”

“And it’s frazzled yer brain a bit, that it?”

Kevin huffed. He climbed to his feet, where he cricked his neck and spine. Mantaro handed him a fresh shirt from the gym-bag lying beside the bench, which he took with a grateful nod, and pulled the pink fabric over his body until it stretched tight over his muscles. The lights in the gymnasium were harsh, forcing him to rub at his temples with a hiss, and – in the distance – Jacqueline trained alongside Seiuchin and Gazelleman, while attacking Barrierfreeman any time he stood within six feet of her person. It was an enviable strength she possessed.

He picked up his bag and wandered over to a bench. He leaned back flush against the wall, while he parted his legs and swung the bag between them, and Mantaro followed with a bottle of water in tow and the empty protein-shake in his other hand. Kid sat at his left, as Mantaro plopped down without grace on his right. A silence fell between them. It was broken only by grunts and groans from training wrestlers, and finally his soft whisper of:

“I told my mother about my relationship with Warsman.”

Kid flinched. He pulled his hands upward, before a sharp ‘_ah_’ tumbled from his lips, and slowly . . . with a sense of resignation . . . his body relaxed again with an ‘_oh’_. A hand came up to pat against his shoulder, while Mantaro hummed and furrowed his brow beside him, and – slower on the uptake – he leaned forward and locked eyes with Kevin. Kevin sighed. He quirked an eyebrow behind his mask, as she stared down Mantaro, but Mantaro – with his usual obliviousness – simply folded his arms and asked with a pout:

“She didn’t already know?”

“I think she was as clueless as Daddy,” scoffed Kevin. “I just . . . I just . . . I thought it’d go well, you know? Warsman ended up talking to Bibimba, as they’ve been friends for so long, and he said she was so supportive and kind and patient. He was able to tell her _everything_, too, not even just the basics that Mum and Daddy know about. How – How could she . . .?”

“Hey, you’re shocked my mom _supported _him?”

“Well, _yes_, if I’m honest, Mantaro.”

“Yer just not used t’ a supportive family,” added Kid. “A friend is meant t’ support you unconditionally no matter what, and – sure – they ain’t always got t’ agree with you, but they sure as heck have to respect ya and help ya out when things get tough. It’s normal.”

“Plus, my momma is the best!” Mantaro smiled. “I also think she still kind of holds a grudge against Robin, so . . . yeah, that’s a thing? I never did get all the details, but her nostrils flare and her lips purse together when Dad starts to praise the guy too much. If Robin was totally against it, that’d probably be enough for her to be totally for it, for sure!”

Kevin chuckled. He draped his towel around his neck, while his hands worked at the muscles of his upper back, and his head fell in memory at how Warsman would help him after every match, always working out various knots and drawing a hot bath. Kevin dropped his hand slowly to his thigh, where the outline of his phone pressed against his fingers. The rectangular shape was still and silent, without any sign of a text or message, and he gnawed against his lip, until Kid nudged him in the side and asked:

“So how’d yer momma react?”

Sweat mingled with his tears. It stung at his eyes, as he rapidly blinked, and his hand tightened around his phone until his knuckles turned white. A few hissed breaths escaped him, while he cast his gaze around the stadium . . . his vision was distorted . . . _wrestlers trained in various rings, teachers and trainers exercised on gym equipment, the chairman stood to the far corner taking notes . . . _life went on, even as his stopped. He choked out:

“I think she may have disowned me.”

The tears fell free, as he dropped forward. He buried his face into his hands, while Kid and Mantaro shared a look, and – after the longest few seconds of his life – they both dropped a hand onto his shoulder and squeezed with a firm hold that provided a small comfort. He fought to hold back the sound of his cries, but his back jerked with wracked sobs. Kid stuttered over a few meaningless words, while Mantaro rubbed circles and hummed an old song, and the tune was oddly familiar, like a lullaby. Mantaro asked in a quiet voice:

“Why’d you say a thing like that, Kevin?”

“It started out that I kept trying to ring home,” said Kevin. “Daddy kept intercepting all of my calls, saying that it would break Mum’s heart. He said that I could speak to her only once I’d broken up with Warsman. After I told him to stop talking bollocks, he blocked my fucking number and hasn’t answered me since. I thought he was just being a bit of a prat, so . . .

“I – I went in person to see her, so I could explain everything. I really wanted her advice and someone to talk to, because . . . because she’d _get_ everything that I had to say, as she’s been through everything before, and who else knows us better? It was pretty early when I got there, and Daddy refused to let me inside, but I made enough of a fuss that she overheard and she made him let me come inside, and she sat me down and we caught up for a bit.

“It was all nice and friendly, until . . .

“You should have _seen_ the look on her face! I’ve – I’ve never seen her so white . . . it was like all the colour had been drained from her, and her lips trembled and her hands shook and she spilled her tea all over her lap and -! I can get being shocked, but this was something else entirely . . . it was like I told her I was sleeping with a monster or something. I – I doubt she’d have been that upset even if I said I was dating Mars or Bone Cold!

“She . . . she demanded that I break up with Warsman! I just . . . I sat there watching her pace and pace and pace, while she ranted about how he was old enough to be my father and how his role as my mentor put him in a position of trust . . . how I should have known better and how I should think of the consequence and how I disappointed her . . .”

Kevin threw himself onto his feet. He grasped the ends of the towel, where he pulled so hard that his neck ached and burned, and inside him the adrenaline brewed and coursed and boiled, until he panted for breath . . . his heart racing in his chest . . . the tips of his fingernails left crescent-shaped cuts in his palm. Dark spots danced before his eyes, while he swayed where he stood and struggled to stay upright. Mantaro jumped. He stood before Kevin with hands rose in a gesture of surrender, and Kevin forced himself to slow down his breaths. 

“That sounds pretty rough,” said Mantaro.

“Mum just looked at me.” Kevin winced. “It was with such _pity_! I still keep wondering what they look was about, what she wasn’t telling me, but she just begged me again to leave Warsman and find someone else, and I . . . I told her I can’t. _I can’t_. So . . . she just burst into tears and ran . . . she ran from me . . . her own fucking son! I feel so . . . lost.”

“That – That’s pretty extreme,” replied Kid. “I mean, I can get being all het up over something pretty major, but ain’t that goin’ a bit overboard? I know Warsman has got a bit o’ a past with being all bloodthirsty and all, but ya think they ain’t tellin’ us something?”

“Warsman has been nothing but a perfect gentleman to me, Kid.”

“But that ain’t t’ say he’s always been one, right?”

Mantaro cleared his throat. He jerked his head towards the framed photographs that lined the walls, along with various trophies and statues, and there was no mistaking those of Warsman with his infamous smile and splattered with blood. It shone like onyx on his black skin, making it all the darker. If Robin could overlook his past, why couldn’t Alisa? Mantaro clasped his hands behind his head, while he rocked back and forth on his heels, and he gazed upward to the ceiling with a furrowed brow and pursed lips, as he asked:

“If it’s this much trouble, why _not_ just leave him?”

“I couldn’t even if I wanted,” mumbled Kevin.

“Okay, but . . . why not?”

Kevin turned to see the nearest photograph. It was taken in the old shack with all of Kinnikuman’s closest friends, all looking beaten and blue, and yet there were bright smiles on all of them, with laughter that seemed to permeate through the glass. He knew the story from his father . . . the day of Kinnikuman’s wedding, as he wanted to fight against his friends one last time. Kevin drew in a deep breath, as he forced out the truth at last:

“Warsman’s pregnant.”

Mantaro choked. It was an impressive feat, when there was nothing but air, and yet he coughed and spluttered until his face turned red and Kevin was forced to slap him on his back, while Kid shouted a _‘no way’_ loud enough to attract a great deal of attention. All eyes turned to look at them, before Kevin – with a hard sigh – grabbed both by their ears and dragged them into a nearby changing room. He threw them down onto a bench. They both started babbling at a rapid speed with total incomprehension, until Kevin raised a hand.

They both obediently stopped, but it served as a cold reminder . . . they were only seventeen, not used to adult life and its complexities, and – despite their friendship – there was no way that they could comprehend the dawning panic of impending parenthood. Kevin sat opposite them, as he scratched at his neck and left red lines along his skin. It ached, but it was a sweet ache that brought him back to reality, while Kid leaned forward and twirled his hand in the air, as if he sought to hurry Kevin along in his confession. He whispered:

“Yer kiddin’, right?”

“Warsman doesn’t age,” said Kevin. “At least, he ages very slowly compared to any other chojin, because of his cyborg status. He’s still able to get pregnant, and we’re not exactly leading a chaste relationship . . . it’s perfectly natural, as we’re both hot-blooded men, and we were always very careful except for – well – one time. It also wasn’t an easy choice whether to continue the pregnancy or to end it earlier, and we talked a lot about things.

“As much as Warsman is worried about our child being a robo-chojin, too, they’ll still be borne from our love and a product of our union, and we’re both in a place where we can provide for a child financially and emotionally, so why not make a go of things? I thought we might move back to England, and my paternal grandfather is offering to support us, but –

“What does that all mean without my parents? I guess I always knew that Daddy would have issues with it, but I never thought I’d be doing this without my mum around . . . no one to offer advice, no one to babysit, no one to listen to me talking about their milestones . . . none of my friends have had children, and most aren’t even in serious relationships. I don’t know why she’d turn her back on me. Didn’t she have the same problem?”

“You were born out of wedlock?” Mantaro asked.

“What? No. No!” Kevin shook his head. “I meant that Grandfather Knight was totally against a union with a human, and Grandfather Paul was totally against her marriage to a man so uncouth and from old-school old-money. They had to fight everyone to be together and win their respect, but still they don’t seem to empathise with my plight? It’s just so hard to understand, but they won’t _talk _to me to explain why they’re like this, and –”

A figure appeared in the doorway.

It held a clipboard in hand, while a sharp intake of breath marked the start of an aborted word, and – as Kevin focused – the figure of his father filled the doorframe, where it loomed like an ominous shadow ready to descend upon them. Robin muttered something under his breath . . . _‘- late, Mantaro, you -’_ . . . his back was already turned when Kevin stood. He stooped forward over his clipboard, as he marched at a quick pace back into the stadium, and he made no sign of having seen Kevin, even as he took a sharp turn into a far corridor.

Kevin darted back into the stadium. He chased Robin through the corridor, where he turned off into the offices and tried to slip out through a back door, and Kevin – crying out with a high-pitched sound – snatched his wrist at the last second. The door was already cracked open a few inches, so a sharp draught swept through and sent a chill down his bones. He pulled at Robin, forcing him to face him, and leaned into his personal space to spit:

“What did you do?”

Robin rolled his eyes, as he turned to walk away . . . it was too much . . . the anger, the betrayal, the sadness . . . each beat of his heart grew louder and louder and louder . . . Kevin let loose a broken growl. His hands moved without intent. His vision blacked out. The touch of steel was cold against his hands, as he shoved hard against Robin. The force of the shove sent him hurtling backward. He stumbled as Robin stumbled, only to scream out:

“_What did you do to turn Mum against me?_”

A cold silence fell between them. Robin dropped his hand at his side, where the clipboard knocked against the outside of his thigh, and a low scoff tumbled from his lips, as he lowered his head and slowly shook it with a hiss of breath. He reached out with a trembling hand, which he dropped on Kevin’s shoulder. Kevin jerked away. The familiarity burned his flesh, too similar to that of a friend from one that cared nothing for him. Robin whispered:

“Why don’t you ask Warsman?”

Robin stepped backward, while his hand slowly slid away. It lingered in the air, as a barely heard _‘I’m sorry’_ was muffled behind the white steel of his mask, and Robin stepped through the door and turned his back on Kevin once again. The door swung closed, clicking in place as Robin quickly made his way towards the parking lot. Kevin grasped at the wall, as he panted for breath and choked on bile, and his other hand – trembling, cold – moved to his phone and grasped tight, as he screwed shut his eyes. Warsman was in England . . .

. . . _‘I will be back as soon as I am able’, ‘it’s not going to change anything’, ‘we were all friends once, Kevin, and I am sure that your mother will listen to my pleas, but – even if she does not – at least I can return to you knowing that I have done all that I can’ . . . _

He pulled the phone from his pocket. It took several clicks to turn it on, where a black-and-white image flashed into life, and there – staring back at him – was the small figure that was barely recognisable as chojin and yet held an infinite potential for life. He tasted a tear on his lips, as he smiled at the ultrasound scan. It soon faded when he noted no missed calls and no missed texts, even as Robin’s words echoed over and over around his mind:

_‘Why don’t you ask Warsman?’_


	4. Chapter 4

_‘I do not know, Kevin’._

_The rain crashed down overhead. It trickled down his helmet, where it ran over the artificial eyes of his mask and distorted his vision, and the cold moisture soaked into his thick coat, where it clung to his skin and stuck against his flesh. The skies were a dark grey, casting shadows long over London. A sliver of sunlight peaked through in the distance. He held the mobile phone close to his ear, while his hand tightened around the suitcase._

_He quickly darted his gaze to the note squeezed between hand and handle. The ink was bleeding into the paper, but there was no mistaking the letters: this was the right address. It was a beautiful terraced townhouse, with a wrought-iron fence hiding the strange drop to the basement level, and the large knocker upon the door shaped like a lion’s head. A few black-cabs drove passed at a slow speed, while the wind caught at the trees of the park behind him, and Warsman – with a sigh – lowered his head and dropped his shoulders. Kevin shouted:_

_‘He told me to ask you, though!’_

_‘And I am telling you that I have not spoken to him since our argument.’ Warsman winced. ‘I wish that I could answer you, but I do not know why Alisa would turn against you, and nor do I know what part I would have to play in that action. Look, I promise you that I will call you as soon as I have spoken to Alisa. I will do all I can to resolve matters.’_

_‘O-Okay, but . . . send her my love?’ A low sigh echoed down the speaker. ‘You also have Grandfather Knight’s address, right? He says you’re still more than welcome to stay, if Mum and Daddy won’t let you crash at their place. He’s excited to meet you.’_

_‘He is probably just relieved you did not impregnate a human.’_

_‘Probably, but I think he admires you, too.’_

_Warsman chuckled. He walked across the street with his head down. A few pedestrians caught sight of his dark skin and masked face, still visible despite the high collar of his coat, and their expressions changed in the way one only saw in a “respectable neighbourhood”. It was a cold reminder of his robo-chojin status and that of more typical forms of racism. He climbed the several steps to Alisa’s front door, where he dropped his suitcase onto the porch and reached up for the knocker. He pulled it back, but paused to say with a hint of desire:_

_‘I will call you soon, Kevin. I love you.’_

_Kevin hummed, while someone laughed. He was not alone, which was for the best, and yet – as Warsman tilted back his head, letting the raindrops wash his face afresh – a sting of longing brought a wave of nausea to his throat. Warsman finally let the doorknob slam. It echoed out three long times, before a hitch in Kevin’s breath betrayed that there were tears still to be shed. Kevin choked out with slow and sincere speech:_

_‘I love you, too.’_

* * *

The door creaked . . .

It moved only a few inches. The chain rattled and thumped, as it was forced as wide as the metal would allow, and a familiar face appeared in the gap, as the greying hair of a middle-aged woman stared at him with a furrowed brow. Warsman smiled. It did not show on his mask, but it showed on his eyes that shifted in shape and brightened in light. The raindrops caught at the glass, casting a glittering light about his face, and he nodded slowly with a hum.

A low gasp escaped Alisa.

The door was slammed closed, followed by a clatter and clang of the chain. He stayed rooted in place, while the door was soon flung wide open, and there – as a vision of beauty – stood Alisa so similar to how he remembered all those years ago, when they were still equals in age and equals in the heart of Robin. The light from the hallway cast her in a rich glow, as she stared at him with wide eyes and her hand clenched to her heart. He whispered a ‘hello’.

The years had been kind to Alisa. A thick grey streak ran through blonde hair, while her freckles masked many of the lines about her face, and – despite the birth of her children – there was only a minimal gain of weight about her person. The breeze from the brewing storm caught at her skirts, so that the blue material fluttered with a graceful shape. A burst of warmth came from the house beyond, where the flickering lights of a fire cast long shadows at her side, and they brought life to her paled cheeks and half-parted lips.

“Alisa, it is good to see –”

_A stinging slap._

It caught him by surprise, sending his head hurtling to the side. A sharp stinging sensation radiated out from behind his mask, and her hand – as she yanked it back – was a bright red from human force against a strong metal, while tears streamed down her cheeks. He dropped his suitcase with a loud thud. He brought his trembling fingers to his face, where he gingerly touched at the spot where her hand met mask, and a mere brush was enough for him to flinch.

“How?” Alisa gasped. “How could you?”

He blinked back tears. A lump formed in his throat, as he slowly turned his head, but her fists were balled at her sides until knuckles turned white, and no words would fall from his lips, even as he sought to make amends with one of his oldest friends. He reached toward her, but his hand was quickly slapped away with a hard blow. He froze. The ticking of a grandfather clock marked the passage of time, as they remained fixed in place, and he swallowed hard.

Tears streamed from her eyes, where they dripped down her chin. A few drops marked the floor, where they bled into the carpet and merged with one another, and – as her body trembled – something broke insider her . . . she lunged at him. The bunched fists hit at his chest again and again and again, while he stood with his hands raised in surrender. He let loose a shuddered breath, as his heart beat faster and faster, and the blows continued until they slowly died away and her palms pressed lifelessly to his chest.

Warsman quickly snatched at her wrists. Alisa was already halfway to the floor, as she slid downwards limp and broken, and he struggled to get an arm underneath her, so that he could support her weight and edge her inside onto a chair beside the door. He awkwardly snatched at his bag, which he pulled inside, and kicked closed the door. Alisa hunched forward. The way she sobbed into her hands brought tears to his eyes, as she choked out:

“_How could you, Nikolai?_”

He winced. He dropped a hand onto her shoulder, where his thumb stroked against her neck, and the pad of his thumb caught the racing of her pulse, which marked the start of a panic attack. He counted her breaths. He felt her trembles. The bloodshot eyes were covered with water, as she stared at him with a mouth wide open, and yet no words passed between them, even as her hand came up to stroke against his hand in turn. A soft tune echoed out from the lounge, where music from an old film mingled with stale dialogue. Alisa half-smiled.

“I thought we were friends,” whispered Alisa.

“I thought we were friends, too.” Warsman knelt at her side. “I never chose to love Kevin, just as I never deliberately sought out to hurt you, but – please – I must beg you to reconsider the whole situation . . . hate me, but do not hate Kevin. It breaks his heart to think that you have disowned him. He has become a victim when he has done no wrong.”

“I – I didn’t – I thought –”

“May we talk? I have taken some time from work, so I am able to talk with you for as long as needed, and – if necessary – I am willing to wait for Robin to return, so that we may all talk together and resolve this like adults. Please, do not send me away. Kevin needs for this to be settled; even if it means you never speak to me again, you must speak with him.

“He expected that Robin would not support him, even if I do not believe that is not the case, but to see you so upset and to have you reject him . . . it has shattered his very being. He always forged his identity around how others perceive him, for better or worse, and he always saw your love as something unconditional, upon which he could always depend. If you take that way from him, it breaks the foundation on which he stands. Do not break his heart.”

Alisa wept in earnest. He knelt at her side, while he took hers hands with a gentle hold. The fire from the lounge crackled with life, as the flames cast moving shadows on the far wall, and there came a faint whisper of a voice – small and broken – that he recognised as her favourite actress on her favourite soap opera. It was as if time were frozen. Even the scent of her perfume was no different than before, while the décor of the house was only altered with the occasional newspaper clipping commemorating Kevin’s career behind clean glass.

“I thought that he’d leave you, if he understood how I felt.” Alisa winced. “I thought that _you’d_ understand why, but the more you talk . . . Nikolai, can you just think about the age difference here and how you were Robin’s best friend? I love my son. How can anyone doubt that? That’s _why_ I had to push him away, because I thought an ultimatum –!”

“All it did was hurt him, Alisa. I know that things are complicated between us now, and perhaps our friendship will not survive either, but Kevin and I shall not be parted. What reason is there for us to part ways when we are so much in love? I am sorry, Alisa.”

“You just don’t understand! You just don’t get it.”

“What is there to ‘get’? Please, tell me.”

Alisa jumped upright. A hand pushed him aside, where it knocked him off-balance and forced him to sit on his buttocks on the cold floor, and – as he awkwardly climbed to his feet – Alisa raced towards the large kitchen at the far end of the house. He removed his coat with a sigh. The water still clung to the fake fur, matting it together at the hood in an inelegant mess, and the dark brown material was nearly black with moisture, as he carefully draped it over the back of the chair and shook his head. A loud clatter followed from the kitchen.

Every footstep echoed. He walked with slow purpose, as he watched her from behind at the kitchen sink, where her pale hands dove into the waters and furiously scrubbed at the ceramics with enough violence to spark splashes of water. The dishwasher beside her was empty. Warsman froze in the doorway, noting the expensive appliances, and scoffed to see the washing machine was – in itself – cost more than most of his wardrobe.

He stopped just beside her, where he took a cup from her hands. A tea-towel sat to the side, which enabled him to dry the cup and busy himself, and – together – they continued the chores in an awkward silence, each one staring downward. It took her several minutes to wash a fork, until finally she broke down once more . . . tears spilled down her cheeks. He resisted the urge to brush them away, or to hand her a handkerchief, as she wrapped her arms around her chest and shook her head over and over. Alisa choked out in a broken whisper:

“He could be your son, Nikolai.”

A cup fell from his hands. It smashed against the tiled floor, where the pieces of ceramic scattered, and it almost glittered in the low light, as the wind howled outside and rattled the old single-paned windows. He pressed a trembling hand to his chest. Every breath was heavy and loud . . . _‘koho, koho, koho’_ . . . tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, as his voice-box tried to formulate words and died each and every time. He shook his head.

Warsman stumbled backward. He grasped at the marble counter. The light behind his eyes flickered and faded, while adrenaline burst through every vein and burned at his muscles, and his head grew light . . . _dizzy, weak, fading . . . _his mouth ran dry, while he swayed where he stood. It took all his energy to brace his weight on the counter, as he fought the urge to collapse and fall into the safety of unconsciousness, and Alisa – with a pathetic half-smile – turned to look at him with bloodshot eyes and a trembling lip. He begged:

“W-What? I – I don’t –”

Alisa touched him with a wet hand. He jerked away and ran to the table, where he threw himself into an antique chair, and – as the oak wood pressed against his back – he dropped his head backward and stared emptily at the ceiling . . . the world faded around him . . . there was only the strange spot on the paint above. A terrible tingling sensation ran over his scalp, as if thousands of ants crawled over his flesh. The fingers of each hand opened and closed of their own accord, until he was forced to press them to his thighs. He spat:

“Why would you _say_ that?”

He shook his head, while she slowly came over to the table. A soft rustle of skirts indicated that she had taken her place, as she eased herself into the chair beside him, and her hand came to rest on his knee, which he yanked away with a rough growl. Alisa gently clasped her hand to her breast, while a staggered sigh fell from her parted lips. They sat in silence. He clenched his fist until blood dripped down his wrist, while a sharp pain rang down his palm, and – with a pained scream – he slammed it down on the tabletop. Alisa yelped. The table rattled.

“Nikolai,” whispered Alisa. “Did you never do the maths?”

“From one night? From one time?” Warsman laughed. “I always thought what we shared was a moment between two friends both lost in grief; one in which we sought solace and a reprieve from mourning a man whom we both loved, and one that we swore never to repeat and one we never desired to repeat. Now you mean to tell me that we had a _child_ together?”

“I – I don’t _know_ that, Nikolai! Robin was brought back to us soon after, and we . . . we celebrated as you can expect. He was gone for so long, I never thought he’d come back to us, and there he was . . . home . . . _with me_ . . . I had my soul-mate back in my life, and –”

“You made love with him.”

“How could I not?” Alisa smiled. “I thought I would die without him, like half of my soul had been ripped from my chest, and he was there – _finally_ – in my arms, holding me like he did when we first dated and first fell in love . . . I was complete again. I was happy.”

“Yes, _three days_ after we had sex, Alisa! I do not hold your actions against you, because what we had was merely a physical distraction, and – had Robin not returned – I still do not believe that it would have led to a relationship between us, but did you ever think to stop and tell us that the paternity may be . . . dubious? Do you know which of us is his father?”

Alisa stood and paced. Each step was loud and echoed, as if the kitchen were deprived of everything except her presence, and just beyond her – in the dining area – the large French doors marked the way into the exquisite garden beyond. The rain ran down the panes of glass, so that the cascading rivulets made the world beyond look both beautiful and alien, enough that he wished to get lost there and never return. He rolled his head to the side, as the howling wind provided a small comfort . . . _is it raining back in Japan?_ . . .

He ran his hands over his face, as he awaited the inevitable answer. Alisa stopped before the mantelpiece of the kitchen fire, now more decorative than functional, and just above it – serving as the focal piece – hung a family picture of Robin and Alisa, along with their children that stood on either side of them. Alisa reached toward it with a soft touch, only to pull away as if burned. He stayed silent, as she turned to face him with a loud sniff.

“I feel that it’s you,” whispered Alisa. “They say brown hair is a dominant trait, and Robin’s a natural brunet, but you . . . it’s not much, especially as he’s displayed no robotic traits and shares much of his personality with Robin, but then how much is nurture and how much is nature? I suppose he could have learned body language, expressions, quirks . . .”

“What about Robin? Does he know that –?”

“He knew that we slept together while he was gone, but he didn’t know that you might have been Kevin’s father until he told me that you were . . . you were . . . _my god, Nikolai_! This is why I pushed Kevin to leave you, because if you’re his father then – then – then it’s –”

“It’s incest,” he gasped.

“How could I tell Kevin? I didn’t want him to feel . . . feel disgusted . . . I didn’t want him spiralling back into alcohol and hanging out with hoodlums and blaming himself for _my_ secret and _my_ shame, and I didn’t want him hating Robin, especially when Robin had no idea any of this was even an issue. I was just trying to protect him, Nikolai. I swear.”

The phone in his pocket buzzed. He pulled it halfway out, where the name ‘Kevin’ flashed into view, and suddenly the past few years took on a whole new perspective . . . the times he acted as a manager and trainer, the times he watched over someone so alone, the times he sacrificed so much . . . were those the actions of a lover or a father? He retched. The bile burned at the back of his throat. He barely made it to the sink, before he vomited.

It was a vile sensation, as his throat clenched and contracted. The choking sensation was complete with a bitter taste on his tongue, while the in-flight meal made its reappearance, and his hand instinctively fell to his stomach, as he thought to the morning sickness . . . _this child could be both my son and grandson_ . . . tears spilled from his eyes, as he sobbed. Alisa came behind him, with her hands wringing out the hem of her cardigan. It took a few minutes for the vomiting to stop and the sweat to finally break. Alisa mopped his brow and asked:

“How are you feeling, Nikolai?”

“Like I’ve been raped,” spat Warsman.

He spun around. He snatched the wet cloth from her hand. The cloth was cool against his skin, washing away the sweat and heat, but it did little to remove the sensation of dirt . . . of contamination . . . of being _soiled_. He rubbed and rubbed and rubbed, until – with a loud growl – he tossed the cloth into the filled sink and spun back. He slammed his hands on the edge of the porcelain, before his callused fingers gripped at the white material, and he hunched over to stare at his distorted reflection in the deep waters of the dirty dishes.

“If I had known, I would never have pursued a relationship!” Warsman banged the sink. “Do you know what you’ve done? We have emotionally invested in this relationship . . . _we are in love! _. . . this will cause more heartbreak than either of us can endure. Not to mention, I feel dirty already. If this is true, I would have broken so many laws and committed so many sins!”

“How was I supposed to know you’d fall for someone half your age?”

“Did it never occur to you that I had a _right_ to know? No, I bet it did not. After all, a cyborg cannot possibly have a heart, can it?” Warsman wiped at his tears. “I thought you saw of me something greater than the sum of my parts . . . was I wrong? Are we not friends?”

Alisa brushed her fingers against his hand. He yanked it back with a loud cry, before he stumbled back and cradled his hand against his chest, and – gazing at her – he saw only a stranger before his eyes . . . _liar . . . liar!_ . . . he pressed his knuckles against his temples, as he tried to drown out the voice that screamed at him: _liar_! No, it was too much. He spun around and marched back out into the hallway. The coat was still wet and cold, as he wrenched it onto his body and dove towards his suitcase. Alisa called after him:

“Where are you going, Nikolai?”

“I am going to stay at Robin Knight’s home.” He swallowed hard. “I feel that I need to take a shower, preferably until my skin is rubbed raw . . . _my son_? Really? All of this – _all of this_ – would have been prevented had you just been honest from the start!”

“I’m sorry, but I just did what I thought –”

“No. I do not want to hear it.”

He raised a finger to warn her away. Alisa stood far in the distance, lingering in the doorway, as he grabbed at his suitcase and yanked it upward, and their eyes met with matching tears and equal incomprehension. They stared. He nearly stayed . . . nearly apologised . . . it took all his strength to squeeze closed his eyes and turn around, as he threw open the door and ran out into the London streets beyond. He ran until he could run no more.

He did not look back.


	5. Chapter 5

_‘Over here, gentlemen . . .’_

A clatter of cutlery. A rush of scents.

It was always easier to hide amongst a crowd, but easier still to hide within the darkness. The _Sungari_ was known for its low-lighting and candlelit chandeliers, all hanging from low ceilings that were made to emulate the stone facades known in the ex-Soviet block, and what little light reflected beautifully from the perfectly polished wooden tabletops. A waiter would stop on their way past, dressed in a uniform that would not be out of place on an old film.

The vodka sat untouched in its glass. Warsman sipped from the water instead, but – on every other sip – he would brink the vodka to his mouth and breathed deep, as if the inhalation of the scent alone would bring some small satisfaction. The _borscht _sat before him with a bloody red hue, where it released a thick aroma . . . _‘never forget, Nikolai, a dash of _smetana_ is what is needed to truly complement the dish’ _. . . a smile reached his eyes, although it remained absent from his mask. He chuckled, as he took a lingering bite.

He dropped his other hand to his stomach, where he rubbed circles with his thumb. The skin was taut and stretched, enough that lately street-wear had become the norm, and soon he would have to refrain from his battle uniform in its entirety, as stretch-marks became visible across his brown skin. A low cough echoed out beside him. He turned his head. Terryman and Suguru stood beside the table, although Suguru rested his forearms on Terry’s back and leaned clasped his hands over one shoulder, as he leaned forward over him.

It was an oddly intimate gesture. Terry showed no sign of discomfort, only mild irritation, as he flicked at Suguru’s nose and rolled his eyes with a smile. Suguru pulled away with an exaggerated groan, before Terry dragged him down into the chair opposite Warsman and sat down in turn, and the two of them – sharing a look only best friends of decades could share – seemed to say something to one another in a secret language. Terryman asked in a low voice:

“Huh, do ya really have t’ come to Shinjuku fer good food?”

Suguru nudged him. Terry nudged him back. A low sigh escaped Warsman, as he dropped his spoon into the bowl and pinched where the bridge of his nose would be located. A couple of waiters walked by them more than necessary, each one offering complementary water and vodka and bread to the table . . . _‘is that Kinnikuman?’, ‘I can’t believe I’m serving a king’ _. . . Warsman whispered to them in Russian: _‘the king requires privacy, do not linger’_. They soon scarpered. Warsman leaned forward on his elbows, as he locked eyes with them to ask:

“Did Robin send you? Or was it Kevin?”

“Er, Robin told us that you were – ah – dating Kevin,” muttered Suguru. “We kind of already knew, to be honest. We thought you were a cute couple! It’s just – er – well . . . he told us that you . . . were . . . _you know_. He told us about that thing with Alisa? So . . .”

“We heard that ya got back from London, so we wanted to check on ya.”

“Robin says he’ll be here in a ‘wee tick’, too.”

The pronunciation made Terry chuckle. It was enough to start a bickering match between the two, as if the years had changed nothing between them, and soon they were slapping at each other’s hands and making childish insults, until he cleared his throat and both stopped. They both blushed, before folding their arms and facing away from each other with a blush. He had never grown up with any siblings, but sometimes – when he saw them – he thought that was what true brothers were like . . . Warsman lowered his head and hummed.

They watched him with curious gazes; one sat with lips parted and skin paled, and one stumbled over unspoken words and with a watery sheen over their eyes. The gazes roamed over him . . . throat, wrists, pockets . . . Warsman rolled his eyes, as he pushed his glass of vodka towards Terry and nodded to him. Terry took the glass and swirled the liquid, although – experience providing the strongest memories – he refused to take a sip.

“I am not going to hurt myself,” said Warsman.

“No one said that,” replied Terry.

“I just needed some time alone. It seems that my whole life has been a lie, but – not only that – a lie which will ultimately devastate Kevin and change everything between us . . . if I had known this was a possibility, I would never have consent to . . . to . . .”

Tears pricked. He screwed shut his eyes, while his one organic eye burst with sparks of colour, and the world around him faded black for several long seconds, until he worked up the courage to open them again and see the world as it stood. A long shuddered sigh escaped him, as he swallowed back a hard lump in his throat. He ran his hands over his stomach, as he tilted back his head and stared upward, and a burst of acid burned at the back of his tongue, while he tried to control his breathing and heart-rate. He shook his head.

“I foolishly thought that I would not run into anyone around the Kabukichō district,” confessed Warsman. “So far I have encountered Gazelleman and Kid arguing over a young woman, and Mantaro trying to sneak into a love hotel with Jacqueline, and Buffaloman wandering drunk from an _izakaya_. I am the only one that cares for my reputation?”

“Seems so,” laughed Terry. “We caught Ramenman trying t’ drag Buffaloman home, only for ‘im to be dragged into a club, too! My, he looked like a cowpoke on his first rodeo, all nerves and all doubt. I bet he’s in there livin’ it up, though. I used t’ love this place!”

“Wait,” said Suguru. “My son’s in a love hotel?”

“That ain’t what’s important, pal! What matters is this has been goin’ on long enough. Yer got Robin tryin’ t’ break them apart, an’ then Warsman headin’ to ol’ Limey Land, and how long has that all took in total? This needs to get sorted. It’s not healthy.”

“No,” said Warsman. “Shall I tell you what is not healthy? It is the fact that Alisa – the wife of my best friend – lied to me all these years . . . what I thought was a one-night stand, occurring while we were both lost in our grief and seeking for comfort, has instead led to a potential biological son. Ah, but not just _any_ son. This son may just well be my –!”

He bit into his lip. A taste of iron flooded his mouth, as his hands clenched into tight fists. He fought for breath, while he buried his face into his hands, but the air would not come quick enough . . . _ko-ho, ko-ho, ko-ho_ . . . a tremble overtook his fingertips, as his heart pounded loud in his ears until all over sounds were blocked. He could not break. He could not snap. He needed to be strong for his child’s sake, for the sake of his friends, for . . .

A hand touched his shoulder.

Warsman turned. He cast his eyes upward, when – with an audible gasp – his shoulders dropped and muscles relaxed . . . the adrenaline rushed from his veins. The restaurant seemed lighter . . . brighter . . . his hands dropped to his sides, while his eyes fell back on the _borscht_ before him and the ice melting in the glass of water. He returned to picking at his dish, while Robin squeezed at his shoulder and nodded toward him. Warsman returned to his meal.

Robin slid into the chair beside him. A wig of blond hair covered his natural brown, while his perfect suit was topped with a stylish cravat, and – with his face bare – a scowl was evident on his features that dared either Terryman or Suguru to comment on his lack of a mask. They remained silent, although Suguru chuckled something that sounded like _‘the mop you wore last time looked better’_. Terryman choked on his water, until finding enough air to ask:

“Guess that alter ego still has some effect, huh?”

Robin scoffed. He raised a hand to signal the waiter, before – in broken Russian – ordering food for the rest of the table. The waiter failed to recognise him without his mask, instead taking the order with a smile and polite compliment to his lingual abilities, and soon an array of drinks and starters filled the table to its brim. Suguru picked quickly at various delights, while Terry gingerly picked at some meat dishes, and Warsman kept quiet, while he finished his meal and let the silence reign for a time. Robin sighed and waved a hand.

“I thought it might calm the old chap,” said Robin. “If I’m brutally honest, I’m awfully surprised that someone here hasn’t flashed his famous smile before this point. I was about ready to commit bloody murder when I learned that Kevin might be . . . well . . .”

“Can neither of us can say the words, Robin?”

“I certainly cannot say it, no.” Robin winced. “Kevin is my boy, Nikolai! You can both end this affair and pretend it never happened, but what happens to our _family_ should you be his biological father? I raised him with the best intentions. I am legally his father. I shall worship that lad until the day I die, and for someone to sweep in and steal that from me -?”

Robin shook his head. The micro-expressions of his face were easy to read, as his bare face put every line and movement on display, and his eyes . . . hidden beneath the long fringe . . . were cast in a dark shadow, that only emphasised the deep winkles at their edges. They were exaggerated when he winced. He pursed his lips and gnawed at the skin, even as he tried to force a smile, and his nostrils flared in a strange rhythm. Warsman slowly lowered his spoon, where it clinked against the side of the bowl with a loud sound. He spat out:

“What makes you think I want to be his _father_?”

“Why wouldn’t you? Kevin is a good son.”

“Actually,” muttered Terry. “He’s a pretty terrible son.”

“And he is not _my_ son,” spat Warsman. “Is biology all that matters? I was abandoned by my father, just as Suguru was abandoned by his father, and did you not argue and fight with your father, Robin? Did he not strike you? Did he not beat you? No, biology means nothing. I have seen how Brocken raised Jade, and how Mari raised Rinko. Blood means nothing.”

“If it means nothing, should I assume that you’re still fucking my son?”

“Funny, just two seconds ago, you were worried that he would no longer _be_ your son.” Warsman huffed. “Let us be honest, only Kevin can tell us whether this will change anything regarding how he perceives his parentage, but to me . . . _you_ will always be his father.”

“But it still changes everything! You wouldn’t be screwing around, risking pregnancy, with someone that you’re that closely related to, Nikolai. It’s not as simple as saying ‘you be his father, I’m washing my hands of that’, because even if you’re not his father by law . . . it still alters everything and changes everything. I’m allowed to be worried about that.”

“And I am allowed to be _pissed_ at that, too.”

Warsman pushed his bowl away. It slid across the tablecloth, which bunched and creased with the movement and weight of the bowl, and his glass of water shook with the sudden force, where it sent splashes hurtling over the sides and onto the soft fabric. They bleed outward and spread, almost like ripples in a pond expanding ever outward. He lightly touched at one with his fingertip. The cold liquid clung to his cool skin. He pulled back his hand and stared at his hand, where the tiny pricks of moisture glistened in the low light.

“Alisa lied to me, Robin,” said Warsman. “Alisa lied to _us_. I can no longer trust a person I considered a friend, but also I now risk a potential relation with Kevin that – yes – changes everything, but everything was so _perfect_ . . . Alisa may have ruined that, but there would have been nothing _to_ ruin had she told us from the start. I had a right to know.”

“And then I would not have my son,” whispered Robin.

“Do either of us know that?” Warsman shrugged. “I would not have wanted to come between you, while I would have known you two could provide a perfect home, and I was not ready to be a father at that time . . . too self-loathing, too immature in myself . . . I would have happily have relinquished my role, but perhaps lived as Kevin’s uncle or godfather.”

“You wouldn’t have sought or engaged in a relationship with him, either. You wouldn’t have had to break up with him or sacrifice a family, because you can’t mix genetics that closely related . . . knowing would have spared a great deal of heartbreak all around.”

“I think I would have been a confirmed old bachelor, but perhaps I would have found love elsewhere and started a family in turn, as I always dreamed. I know that Kevin would have easily found love . . . Mars, perhaps, but equally maybe Mantaro or Jade . . . if Kevin swung that way, Jacqueline and Fiona would have made good choices, too.”

“But we cannot undo what has already been done.”

“No, we cannot . . .”

The silence returned. Robin leaned back in his chair, while he folded his arms across his chest and lowered his head to shield his eyes with his hair. Warsman leaned forward, with eyes locked clasped hands upon the tabletop, and yet he knew – without a doubt – both their thoughts remained locked on one thing: Kevin. The sound of a _balalaika _echoed out through the air, as one of the waiters played in a far corner. Warsman smiled. He turned his head, and Robin finally moved forward and clapped a hand on his shoulder, as he asked:

“Have you told Kevin?”

“Have you?”

Robin flinched. The tone was harsher than intended. Warsman tensed, as his muscles contracted and his jaw clenched, and he toyed with the edges of the tablecloth in callused hands, while Suguru kicked him from underneath the table. A brief glance revealed a jerk of a head, as Suguru gestured to Robin and mimed badly an incomprehensible sentence. Robin was pale. A low cough came from Terry, who forced a smile that deepened the lines of age about his eyes, and he raised his glass in a mock toast with great flourish.

“So,” said Terry. “We’re all friends, right?”

“I’m still furious about the situation,” confessed Robin. “Still, I hold no animosity over what happened with Alisa. They were both honest about that from the start, and they both thought that I was lost forever . . . dead . . . I’d not begrudge them finding comfort in one another, as it’s an all too human experience. Still, my best friend and my _son_ -?”

“Ah, so you admit he’s your best buddy,” chirped Suguru.

“Ya both need one another,” added Terry.

“We understand what each is going through, yes. Still, what happens from here is a mystery, and I cannot promise that things will remain the same. My biggest fear is losing Kevin, and if Kevin chooses to change his relationship with Nikolai into something more paternal . . . if I lose my son . . . it’ll be awfully hard not to resent him, I’ll admit.”

“And what happens between me and Kevin?” A tear ran from Warsman’s eye. “We still love one another, but must we be forced to part ways? What happens should we choose to remain? Will this change anything between us? I dread to tell Kevin the truth . . .”

“At least y’all know now,” said Terry. “Ya know, before –”

“Before you knocked him up,” laughed Suguru.

The laughter pervaded the restaurant. It was loud, enough that it turned a few heads, but it was also alone . . . Suguru soon trailed off into a chuckle, then a polite murmur, and finally the same awkward silence shared between the rest of the group. He asked into a broken voice one question all the more difficult for its simplicity: _‘he’s not pregnant, is he?’_ The waiter came by with main courses for the others, as well as dessert for Warsman, and yet he poked and prodded at his _chak-chak_ with the edge of a fork. He choked out:

“Actually, I am pregnant.”

_A screech of a chair_.

Robin stood. He pressed clenched fists against the tabletop. There was a tremble to his arms, as veins bulged from the thinning skin, and his nostrils flared with every sharp breath, as he fought to take in enough air to remain in a standing position. Warsman made to speak. Robin lifted a warning hand. It turned into a pointed finger, which jerked several times . . . caught between violence and surrender, and then – abruptly – he marched away from them.

He stalked towards the foyer with hunched back. Warsman struggled to match his speed without arousing attention from the staff, and a mere touch – _the softest brush of his arm_ – resulted in Robin yanking back his body and spinning around. He raked his dark eyes over Warsman, as if seeing him for the first time . . . _lips pursed into a white line, cheeks devoid of all colour, chest visibly heaving with every breath _. . . Warsman raised his hands in surrender, while he lowered his head and screwed his eyes shut. A small shrug was all he could manage.

“I am sorry,” whispered Warsman.

Suguru ran behind them, where he panted for breath on a final stop. He stood between them, almost like a human shield, and placed a hand on both their shoulders, so that he could purposely keep them at a literal arm’s length while keeping the tone casual. Terryman soon followed at a casual pace. In one hand, he carried a plastic bag filled with foil dishes of leftovers and uneaten meals, and in the other hand, he clung to various coats and accessories left behind on the desperate dash from the table. He nodded to them with a smile. 

“We paid for everything,” said Terry.

“Well, _I_ paid,” muttered Suguru. “Someone forgot his wallet again.”

“What d’ya mean ‘again’? I ain’t never forgot it before!”

“Oh, so that one time we went out for –”

They stopped. Robin and Warsman were still silent and still, both staring each other down with the coldest of expressions, and yet there were tears in turn . . . streaming freely down Robin’s cheeks, leaving visible stains on his skin, and adding a shimmer to Warsman’s mask, as he resisted the urge to wipe them from the metal. Terry stood opposite Suguru. It effectively formed a square formation, like a group huddle from their heydays, and Terry tossed them both their personal items, before he asked in a nervous tone:

“Do you want us to – er – leave?”

“No,” muttered Robin. “I just need time . . . I can hardly be angry, can I? It’s hard to be angry at two single men, both above the age of consent, having a physical union . . . especially when neither suspected a relation. Still, I can’t help but feel conflicted. If Kevin is _my_ son alone, I should be thrilled to have a grandchild on the way! I should be excited, but . . .

“What if I’m forced to share Kevin? What if this child is borne of – of – of an _incestuous _union? What if they have problems or disabilities? What do we tell them of their heritage? Will you and Kevin even remain a couple? Would this be a broken home? What if –?”

“I do not know, Robin. Kevin does not even know we might be . . .”

“. . . related,” finished Robin.

They fell back into silence. A young couple whispered ‘_excuse me’_, as they tried to walk past them through the foyer, and – as the four men awkwardly stepped aside – the two people watched them with curious expressions, while they removed their shoes at the entrance. Terry looked down at their feet and mumbled a lame _‘sorry, we forgot’_, before Suguru grabbed him by the arm and pulled him outside, with the others in tow and giggles from the customers behind them. They stopped not far from the entrance, standing beneath a bright streetlight.

Terry sighed. He led the way until they found a bench, and sat down beside Robin with a loud grunt, before unfolding the various dishes and handing them out to grateful hands. Robin and Suguru ate as if it were their last meal, while Terry and Warsman merely prodded politely at their meals and took a few timid bites. The loud sounds of nightclubs and wandering drunks echoed out about them. Warsman had almost zoned out, when Terry gestured to his stomach.

“Sorry, but ah got t’ ask,” said Terry. “What’re you planning on –?”

He lifted a hand for silence. There was something about the situation that brought back memories of his youth . . . _takeouts shared on the floor of Kinniku House, stolen leftovers eaten on the go as he wandered through the snow, street-food handed to him by Bibimba with a beautiful smile . . . _if he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend that the past few years were nothing more than a dream. He ran his free hand over his stomach, as he tried to force the potential ramifications out of his mind. He whispered:

“I feel this must also be Kevin’s decision.”

“What must?” Suguru asked.

“Whether to _keep_ this child.” Warsman winced. “I fear it is too long into the pregnancy to abort, but I also fear that neither of us could bear to terminate merely on the _chance_ that we could potentially be biologically related. I feel we would regret more losing a child in a needless manner, than we would regret keeping a child born from an unknown relation.”

“What if Kevin disagrees? You know he might not want to risk . . . ah . . .”

“That is something we will have to decide together. I always longed for a family, but I never thought that one could be granted or denied to me under these circumstances . . . I fear that I may cry or scream or faint at any moment. It is too much to endure.”

“Do you want one of us there for when you tell him?”

“No, I ought to tell him alone.” Warsman swallowed hard. “I do not know how he will react to the fact that I was once intimate with his mother, but I suspect I know how he will react to the fact I could be what is effectively his sperm donor . . . it will not go well. It would only be worse with one of you present, especially Robin. I must do this alone.”

A pair of arms threw themselves around him. His eyes widened. He brought a trembling hand upward to touch on sagging skin and loose muscles, and turned his head to see Suguru resting his chin on his shoulder, as he wore a large grin and winked. Terry came at his side and threw an arm over them both, while he play-punched him in the side. It was barely even a touch, nothing like the actual punches he would deliver in the past, and it was targeted to avoid his abdomen. Robin sighed, as he came forward and gently nudged his chin.

“You won’t ever be alone,” promised Robin.

Tears pricked at Warsman’s eyes, as his vision blurred. A few gasps escaped him, while he fought back tears, but they soon fell free when Robin pulled him into a warm embrace, and – with his body nearly collapsing as the tension left his muscles – he clung to Robin and openly wept. It brought a sense of relief. He remained locked against Robin for several long minutes, until he found strength to pull back with a smile, and look to each of his friends in turn.

“Thank you,” whispered Warsman.


	6. Chapter 6

Kevin bolted upright.

A loud crash echoed outward. It was piercingly sharp, like he breaking of glass or the spilling of cutlery, and there followed a muffled curse from a low voice. Kevin kicked the blankets from his legs, before swinging his body across the mattress. He planted his feet firmly on the carpeted floor. The bed was empty beside him, with the sheets perfectly smooth, and the bedside-table was devoid of any personal items. Warsman was yet to return.

Kevin bit into his lip.

He stood tall, with his old t-shirt falling to partially cover worn boxers. The messy bed-head fell forward, obscuring his vision with locks a dyed-pink fringe, and the hindered sight only added to the racing of his heart, as he forced deep and slow breaths. _There was an intruder_. Kevin ran a hand through his hair, as his mouth ran dry and his nostrils flared. It was unlikely to be a human intruder . . . _seventh floor, guards in the foyer, cameras in the halls_ . . .

Kevin slowly stepped towards the bedroom door. It was opened. It was closed when he went to sleep, but now it was opened several inches . . . _lights off, front door still locked, windows closed _. . . Kevin pushed it fully open with his little finger, while his pulse pummelled loudly against his eardrums. The lounge was empty. A slither of light came through the spare bedroom opposite, breaking its way beneath the door, and a shadow moved just beyond, where it broke the light into smaller pieces. There was someone in there. Kevin shouted:

“I’m giving you one bloody warning!”

He fisted his hands and marched forward. The beating of his heart matched his pace . . . _pound, pound, pound _. . . he wrapped a trembling hand around the doorknob, where he froze and struggled to maintain steady breaths, and a loud curse escaped his lips. He threw open the door. A dark and shadowy figure knelt on the carpet. They were crouched not far from the in-built wardrobes, where a broken vase sat before an upturned end-table. Kevin struggled to adjust his eyesight in the dark. He squinted and raised a hand to shield his eyes.

_Warsman_ . . .

A mop of blond hair spilled over the sides of his mask, as he picked up pieces of vase with his bare hands, and a small white towel kept his modesty, as his black skin gleamed with droplets of water from the still steaming shower. The _en suite_ let out a billowing heat, while the showerhead dripped steadily and slowly in a frustrating rhythm. Kevin sighed. The tension in his muscles dropped, as he yawned and slowly stumbled over to the mess, and – dropping down without any grace – he helped pick up the pieces into a small pile.

“Nikolai,” he mumbled. “Did you _sneak_ into our apartment?”

Warsman shrugged. He reached over for a wastepaper basket, before dragging it between them, and the pieces of vase in his hand dropped into the basket with a loud clatter, where they sparkled under the artificial light. Kevin finished clearing the mess and pulled Warsman to his feet. They stood in silence before one another. Kevin shook his head and lightly hit Warsman on his upper arm, before he snatched at the basket and dragged it back to the desk in the far corner. He kicked it into place, as he folded his eyes and snapped back:

“I thought you were a pissing burglar!”

“My apologies,” muttered Warsman.

“What’re you doing, anyway?” Kevin cricked his neck. “Why are you showering and sleeping in here? You’ve been weird since you came back from England . . . I just wish you’d talk to me, because clearly something is going on, and I’m not fucking psychic.”

“You are always so grumpy when woken up.”

“This isn’t a joke, Nikolai.”

“No, it is not.” Warsman sat upon the bed. “If I am honest, I received some bad news while I was visiting your mother . . . I have been avoiding you, as I am still trying to best work out how to tell you the truth, but it is all I can think about. Bibimba offered me a chance to stay with her family, but equally I knew I could not be that far away from you right now.”

Warsman slowly slid upward on the mattress. He rested his back against the headrest, while he stretched out his parted legs to accommodate the swell to his stomach, and his callused fingers traced loose patterns on his skin. Kevin furrowed his brow. He wiped away the last of the sleep in his eyes, while he stumbled over to the bed and collapsed onto the mattress. The press of his weight jolted the bed, forcing Warsman to bounce and wince.

He burrowed his way beneath the blankets, while he rested his head on the pillow, but – even as his eyes half-closed – the previous words started to swim around his mind . . . _‘stay with her’, ‘far away from you’ _ . . . his eyes shot wide open, as the blood drained from his face. Kevin slid a shaking hand to Warsman’s thigh, where it rested on the white towel. He drew in a deep breath. A lump formed in his throat, which was swallowed back with a wince, and his hand came further upward to rest on the stomach . . . _skin tight, warm, still swollen_ . . . 

“Is the baby -?”

A low hum escaped Warsman, as he entwined their fingers. He slowly moved Kevin’s hand much lower, but stopping short of anywhere too improper, and – after a few seconds – Kevin felt the very slight flutter of movement, almost too faint to be certain. A _chojin_ pregnancy was shorter in duration than a human pregnancy, with even less research into those with a robotic nature, but there was movement . . . _movement_. Kevin blinked back tears, as he dared to crane his head upward. Warsman nodded with a soft chuckle.

“The baby is perfectly fine,” promised Warsman.

“So why are you sneaking around?” Kevin huffed. “I know you can’t be breaking up with me, because you’d probably be in disguise and out my life before I could say ‘goodbye’, and it can’t be anything to do with the babies, unless it’s another set of twins. It’s not, is it? We have too many of those on both sets of the family. Aunt Laura would be happy, though.”

“It is just one child, I can promise you that.”

“Okay, so . . . do I need to keep guessing?”

Warsman moved his free hand. He rested it upon Kevin’s head, where his long fingers weaved their way through long locks of hair, and his fingertips stroked lightly against his scalp, until Kevin was almost lulled back into sleep. Kevin stroked at the stomach, where their unborn child gave small fluttering movements. The blankets were pulled up to his chin, providing a warm and heavy weight, and Warsman hummed low in this throat, as he brought a hand to his lips and then down to Kevin’s head in a mock kiss, as he whispered:

“I . . . before you were born . . .”

A low and shuddered breath fell from Warsman. The hand on his head tensed, while the one entwined with his hand held tighter, and Kevin stirred with his eyes fluttering open, as he craned his head on the pillow to see that masked face angled away. Every movement of his chest was jerked and abrupt, as Warsman struggled to control his breaths. There was a familiar sound building . . . _ko-ho, ko-ho, ko-ho_ . . . he audibly swallowed.

“I once slept with Alisa,” whispered Warsman.

Kevin jumped. He flung himself upright, as he braced his weight on his left hand. The bed dipped a little with the pressure, while Warsman shuffled a little away, and both hands were now clasped under his stomach, where he cradled the unborn child as best as possible. Kevin sat properly beside him, while he awkwardly pressed his back to the headrest and pulled his legs up to rest his arms on his knees. He panted and shook his head, as he choked out:

“I . . . you . . . well . . .”

He shook his head, before burying his hands into his hair. The room was impossibly bright around them, with the overhead light sharp and harsh on his vision, and he pressed his palms into his eyes with a firm pressure, until – with a murmur – Warsman clicked off the overhead lights and turned on a side-lamp. Kevin dropped his hands. He gestured wildly in the air, while his mouth opened and closed with incomprehensible shapes, and tears pricked at his eyes, until he kicked off the blankets and let loose a low growl. He spat out a cold:

“_What_?”

“I have had other sexual partners in my time,” confessed Warsman. “I first had a casual affair with a young man of my age, Kommandas, and later – before her relationship with Suguru – I do admit that I had a brief relationship with Bibimba. You have been my only serious and long-term relationship, yes, but I was not chaste by any means . . . I had a life, Kevin.”

“Look, I know we never talked about your past in detail. I mean, frankly, I really _don’t _want to know about your past partners . . . the idea of another person touching you just makes me want to skin them alive . . . still, this is -! This is different. You . . . my . . . _my_ –”

“You said to me that you had brief flings before. You may have been a virgin when we were together, but did you not fool around with Mars and make out with a man at a bar? Life goes on, Kevin. If you had not found me, would you have turned down a partner simply as they were friends with Mars or related to him in some way? Would your past with Mars matter?”

“It would if I were dating his fucking son or brother or something! I – I just . . . look, I get that you had a life before me, I do. I also get that with our age difference . . . well . . . it’s inevitable that things might get a bit more complicated. Still, do you get how _weird_ this is? It’s not normal! You shouldn’t be able to compare notes between me and my _mother_, Nikolai! Tell me, do we like the same things? Are we sensitive in the same places?”

Kevin threw his legs over the side of the mattress. He stared at the large windows that overlooked the city, where the millions of sparkling lights spoke of life beyond their large apartment, and then his eyes fell to the cot just beneath the window . . . newly assembled, with a homemade cushion that was embroidered by his grandmother. Kevin stood and marched to the cot. He rested his hands on the white wood, while the mobile hung just a few inches from his eyes, and he gripped tight until his hands ached. Warsman asked:

“Will you be able to look past this?”

A low scoff escaped him, as he rolled his eyes. He spun around and ran his hands over his face, as his rough stubble scratched at his palms, and – once more – his lips stumbled over the appropriate words that would ease the situation. Kevin kicked at the ground with a bare foot, before he walked back through the shadows to the bed. The sheets were cool against him, as he climbed onto the mattress and threw himself next to Warsman. They sat side-by-side, although with a foot of space between them, and Kevin shrugged as he cricked his neck.

“It was before I was born, I have no right to be angry.” Kevin ran a hand over his face. “Is this why they wanted us to break up? I know it’s weird, but you were single and I know that she was – . . . married? Okay, I may need you to explain this a wee bit.”

“You want me to explain how it happened?”

“If you would,” muttered Kevin.

Warsman dropped his head to his chest. He ran his hands over his stomach, where his fingers resumed their strange patterns and movements, and the light of his eyes flickered on and off, as it did when he ‘closed’ his eyes for rest or sleep. Kevin bit into his lip. He reached towards the stomach only to pull back, and his hand lingered in the air for several long seconds, until – with a sigh – he pushed forward and stroked against the taut flesh. A few tears glittered in Warsman’s eyes, as he made a sound between a laugh and a hum. Kevin asked:

“How’re you and Daddy still friends?”

“He was dead, at the time,” said Warsman. “Alisa told him everything. I also had a full conversation with him, but he understood that we both thought he was gone forever, and what we had was literally one night . . . no plans to continue, no emotional investment . . . it would not impact what they had together, at least unless they let it impact them.”

“Wouldn’t it impact them, though? I know grief is an awfully big thing, so I have no right to comment on how Mum would react, especially when I don’t even know how _I_ would react, but to know that she moved on that quickly and just sort of forgot about him and –”

“It was three years, Kevin.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously. We all have to move on at some point, but I would not have judged her had she chosen to have a physical relationship even a few weeks after his death. It sounds cold to say, but their vows ended on ‘until death do us part’, and she had no ties to him any longer, not to mention that some people do find physical solace a helpful distraction.”

“Okay, but still.” Kevin shook his head. “How could he look at her – _at you_ – and not see every time . . . _that_? I know I have no reason to be jealous, because it’s not as though there’d ever be anything between you, but how can I sit around the dinner-table at Christmas and _not_ see her smiling at you and think – and think . . . ‘oh, she knows the sound he makes when he comes’? Oh God, and when we’re together, too, and to know that you –”

“All I can say is that Robin was able to look past what happened, while Alisa and Robin loved each other enough to forget everything, and – while things were initially weird between us – we never since thought of each other in a sexual light. I mean, it was never an issue before, was it? I do not recall ever having called out her name during a climax.”

Kevin retched, as he lightly smacked at Warsman’s upper arm. The laughter from Warsman broke the silence between them, forcing a smile to break across his lips, and together they both relaxed and leaned into each other’s embrace. He was right, it had never been an issue before and Kevin had never suspected. The light from outside caught on Warsman’s mask, where it complemented the shape of his features and added to his glow, and Kevin – as he pulled back – pursed his lips and knitted his eyebrows. He locked eyes with Warsman.

“So you don’t think of her that way?” Kevin asked.

“I never thought of her that way before, and I doubt I shall think of her that way again.” Warsman hummed. “It has never been awkward between us, but it has also never been awkward with Robin, and I feel very comfortable with our friendship.”

The warmth of his body was a sharp contrast to the coolness of his limbs, as well as a firm reminder of his half-robotic nature, and Kevin screwed up his face with a scoff, as he thought of how his mother would have learned of that difference . . . how he groomed himself, the scars on his body . . . Kevin gritted his teeth. There was a pain in his jaw, until he forced himself to let loose the tension with a hiss of breath. He pressed a chaste kiss to Warsman’s cheek, before he found words through a dry mouth to ask:

“So how did it happen?”

“It was the anniversary of his death,” whispered Warsman. “Robin was my closest friend. I remember how he rescued me from a life worse than death, just as I remember how he held me in his arms when I was dying . . . he never laughed at my face, he never thought me a monster, and he never gave up on me when the world long stopped caring about me . . . when he died, I feel like I lost what little part of me held an iota of hope.

“We had our ups and downs. He was abusive for a while, at least while he was my mentor, and he had issues just as I had issues, but we were able to overcome all of that. I remember that before the Dream Tag Tournament that we dressed in a suit to plan in a restaurant . . . I know it sounds silly, but I had never worn a suit before. I was so excited for that one act.

“Robin opened a whole new world to me. When he was gone -? Bibimba lived so far away, so I could not always rely on her hugs or nudges to provide inspiration, and Terryman had a family that occupied a great deal of his time . . . besides, it hurt to be around them. I knew I would never have a family, so why be surrounded by what I could never have? Everyone had lives and commitments and inevitably . . . they did not have time for me. I was alone.”

“That must have been rough,” said Kevin.

“Indeed.” Warsman huffed. “I remember that I visited the graves of my parents that week. I could talk to them as much as I wished, but I could not hear what they said in return. I grew up knowing my father would rather die than atone, and that death was more appealing than a lifetime with his son, and now I had no family and no friends and no mentor. I struggled to cope. I age so slowly, which meant that I had less and less in common with them by the day.

“When I arrived at Alisa’s home, it was merely to pay my respects. I had no plans for what I would do after . . . there was an orphanage in Russia that I ran for those like me, which I could teach and be more active, and there was also the act of suicide, too. Still, I walked in a haze and when I saw her -? Alisa had bloodshot eyes and pale skin.

“I asked her what was wrong. She told me about their plans to have a son, and how they met in university . . . she told me that she had been with no other man, she told me how Robin had been willing to become human for their love, she told me that she still sniffed at his shirt before she slept and how she wore it for comfort. She wept. I held her. It was enough for me to weep, too, tears that I long felt were dried and gone and no more. We wept together.”

A tear rolled down his cheek. Kevin winced, as he gently wiped it away. It left a shimmering mark on his mask, where the moisture from the tear lingered, and he kissed it away before he whispered a low ‘I’m sorry’. He opened his mouth, a half-formed sound already falling from his lips, but Warsman shook his head and raised his hand with a half-felt gesture . . . neither spoke, but the meaning was clear: _‘you don’t have to go on’, ‘I want to go on’_. Kevin rested his head on Warsman’s shoulder, while Warsman took slow and deep breaths.

“I do not know how it happened.” Warsman let a tear fall. “I only know that I kissed on her head, before thinking . . . _‘she is the only connection to Robin left’_. I wanted to forget his loss, but I also wanted to feel him close, and – most of all – I just did not want to be alone, as if some physical closeness could mean that I had purpose and a connection and something to root me in this world with another person to anchor me to life.

“It is hard to say we ‘made love’, as there was no love, but it was something tender and slow and . . . _broken_. It was two souls clinging to one another, in a desperate hope that something shared would somehow half their despair. We slept before the roaring fire, and when I awoke she was already dressed and cleaned and going about her usual routine.”

“Did you regret it?”

“No, but we made no mention of it again,” confessed Warsman. “I called her name, but she lifted a hand and shook her head with tears. I remember that she said something along the lines of ‘_Robin would understand, but I’m not looking for a relationship, I’m just looking for . . . him’_. I said _‘me too’ _and that was that. I stayed in a local hotel, and three days later Robin was returned to life and returned to our lives. Things . . . things were good.”

He held tightly onto Kevin. The fingers on his shoulder and waist were enough to almost bruise, while Warsman held his breath and remained motionless, and something seemed wrong . . . if things were good, why were his muscles so tensed? Kevin pulled back. He sat astride Warsman, although careful of the growing stomach, and his hands ran over the swell of skin, while his eyes locked with Warsman’s gaze. He frowned to see that his gaze could not be met. He swallowed hard to realise that there was more to the situation.

“I think I can understand that,” whispered Kevin. “It’s rather difficult to comprehend, and I think it was all too easy to think of it as something torrid, or that you were both in the right frame of mind to know better, but it’s . . . it’s complicated. I can see why Daddy would have forgiven you both, because there’s nothing really to forgive, is there?”

“No, but . . . I only found this out when I went to London, Kevin, I _swear_ to you that is true, but there was some overlap in the dates on Alisa’s part. Alisa and Robin consummated their relationship on the day he returned . . . said three days later.”

“Yes, now _that_ is something I didn’t need to bloody know.”

“You do, Kevin. You do.”

Kevin rolled his eyes, as he laughed. He flicked at Warsman’s forehead, before he climbed off from the bed and busied himself about the bedroom. There were stray items of clothing that needed to be folded, the odd pieces of porcelain that had been missed in the clean-up, random books laid upside-down in place of a bookmark . . . Warsman sat on the edge of the bed, where he watched with doleful eyes. Kevin stopped. The racing of his heart made him light-headed, as he stumbled back and touched at the desk with trembling hands.

Warsman stood and struggled to walk toward him, as exhaustion set into each and every limb, and his towel had long since fallen from his body, revealing his lower body and making him seem all the more vulnerable . . . human. He stopped before Kevin, as tears streamed down his mask. The mop of blond hair contrasted the light of his eyes. Warsman cupped Kevin’s cheeks, where he stroked with the pads of his thumbs, and choked out in a whisper:

“We do not know at what point you were conceived.”

“Wait,” said Kevin. “Come again?”

The hands shook against his paled cheeks. The truth hung unspoken between them, but there was still room for error . . . for misinterpretation . . . a cold sweat broke over Kevin’s body, like someone had poured iced-water slowly over his bared flesh. It chilled him to the bone, as adrenaline shot through each and every vein. Warsman leaned close, until their foreheads touched and they shared the same breath, and he said in a voice nearly too low to hear:

“I could be your biological father.”

Kevin pushed him. It was a careful pressure, aimed at his chest, but it knocked him back a few steps and forced a distance between them. Warsman made to step forward, but Kevin raised a shaking finger in warning just an inch from his nose. The tears were hot at his eyes, distorting his vision, and his lip trembled much as it did in his youth, where he would seek to hold back his pain lest his father chastise him for the display of emotion.

He choked on the air. He verged on hyperventilation. Kevin paced back and forth as the words ran around and around and around in his head . . . _‘biological father’, ‘biological father’ _. . . bile burned at his throat and tasted bitter on his tongue. Tears spilled freely down his cheeks, where they stained his lips and betrayed his emotion. Warsman touched at his shoulder, but he yanked back his arm and screamed ‘_don’t_, as he stumbled towards the bedroom door. Kevin buried his hands into his hair and pulled, while Warsman begged:

“Kevin, let us talk about this. I –”

“You – You slept with my _fucking mother_ just a few days off of my father, and you tell me that you could be basically be my fucking sperm donor, and you – you – you have the _nerve_ to expect me to calm down and _talk_ about this? You and I could have been . . . blimey, what about our child . . . _our son_? If you’re . . . is he . . . oh god . . .”

“We can take a paternity test,” choked Warsman. “We can also test the child for any abnormalities, and – while it may be too late to abort – we can consider adoption, if you think that is best. I – I do not know what this means for us, but we may not be related . . .”

“And if we are fucking related?”

“We may not be . . .”

“And if we are?” Kevin screamed: “_What if we fucking are_?”

Kevin shook his head . . . _no, no, no _. . . the room spun around him, as he raced towards their bedroom, and he snatched at his jeans and coat, forcing them on with violent and fast gestures, until he recovered some iota of modesty. This was their room . . . _their bed_ . . . how many times had he taken Warsman against the sheets, been taken in turn as the springs squeaked, and moaned until the neighbours banged against the ceiling? All that time, had he been making love to his biological _father_ of all people? Kevin laughed a broken laugh.

“No,” he whispered. “No, I can’t deal with this.”

The walls were closing in . . . _what would this make his child . . . brother to his own son _. . . a cold scream boiled up behind his sternum, threatening to break loose, but the sound died on his lips and he could only hunch forward . . . breathless . . . broken . . . stumbling to the front door, as he snatched at the keys from the bowl. Warsman was behind him. They both shared the same blond hair . . . both lacked the same skin . . . could he be -? Kevin fumbled with the door handle, as he panted and gasped and muttered out ‘no’ like a chant.

“Kevin? Kevin, please wait!”

Kevin flung open the door, before falling into the corridor. The cold air brushed against his sweat and tear-stained skin, as he brought his hands to his head and cursed the lack of his mask . . . _can’t go back, can’t face it _. . . he ran towards the elevator, as he pounded over and over at the call button. The doors opened just in time for him to collapse inside, where he caught his breath, and – as the doors closed – the last thing he saw was Warsman crying:

“_Kevin, come back_!”


	7. Chapter 7

_Knock, knock, knock . . . _

Mars groaned. The leather of the sofa stuck to his back. It peeled away with painful sound, as he winced and swung his legs onto the carpet. He wiped away his sweat with an old t-shirt, while he pulled up his sweatpants further upward to cover his hips, and – with a wide yawn – he stumbled towards the apartment door. The breeze from the open window brought goose-bumps over his bare chest. It rustled at his long locks of red hair, as he cricked his neck.

The apartment was still dark, with the artificial lights of the city mingling with the sunrise, and long shadows were cast through the open windows, until he reached the door and faced his shadow directly against the wood. _A second set of knocks_. Mars mumbled under his breath, as he turned the doorknob and half-opened the door. A familiar memory returned to him, as some distant words played in his mind . . . _‘three knocks is always the bloody etiquette, at least that’s what Daddy says_’ . . . Mars chuckled and shook his head.

The door threw itself open.

Kevin pushed forward and moved with speed. There was no mask, only free and flowing locks of blond hair with a pink fringe, and his head hung so low that there was no seeing his eyes, even as he briefly glanced in Mars’ direction. He had his hands rammed into his pockets, while his back was hunched enough to make Mars wince. Kevin threw himself onto the sofa. He kicked off the last of the blankets and buried his face into a cushion. He screamed. It was a sound barely muffled by the soft fabric, but not loud enough to drown out Mars’ muttered: 

“Yeah, make yourself at home, _asshole_.”

Mars slammed the door shut. It echoed about the rundown apartment, while a neighbour banged on the adjacent wall and yelled something in broken Italian, and Mars dragged his feet across the room, until he dropped down into an armchair opposite the sofa. A television played from the apartment below, where a small child sang along to a cartoon in Japanese, and just above someone argued in English to a language Mars still failed to comprehend. He sat with legs spread and head thrown back, as he closed his eyes and listened to Kevin ask:

“You sleeping on the couch again?”

“Yeah,” said Mars. “He said he ain’t lettin’ me back into his bed, ‘til I let him into my heart. I said that’s the soppiest bullshit I ever heard, so he told me to go to hell, and I ain’t seen him since . . . he’s been crashing at Brocken’s, coming back here when I’m out working. I don’t know, man. I think maybe he’s got a point . . . there’s worse things than being monogamous.”

“Which you are, anyway?” Kevin scoffed. “You might have slept around on other people, but not with that poor chap . . . always so dedicated, so loyal, so _romantic_ . . . you’re not still playing pissing mind-games, are you? Does he really think you’re fucking around?”

“He started it! He won’t tell Brocken we’re a thing!”

“So you’re upset that he won’t seemingly commit, so you pretend to be sleeping around. He is upset that _you_ won’t commit, so he won’t tell Brocken that you’re an item, because who wants to tell their father figure about a fling that won’t last? You two don’t get the pissing irony in this bullshit? You need to grow up and get your head out your ass.”

Kevin tossed a pillow at him. It struck just below the chest, where it fell down onto his lap and finally onto the floor, and Mars – with a grunt – kicked it to the side, before he mumbled a few loose words in Italian . . . ‘_meglio una testa che il pene di un vecchio’. _Kevin gave no sign of response, although a low moan escaped his lips. He lifted his hand as if to provide a gesture of sorts, before he muttered a ‘forget it’ and dropped his arm, and his hand swung over the side of the sofa, where his fingers brushed the carpet. Mars asked with laughter:

“Your pops know you got this potty mouth?”

A middle-finger shot upward. Kevin made no other movement, but simply dropped his hand back down and whispered a long string of curses. The breeze picked up outside, so that the clothes attached to a thin line waved with the new pressure, and Mars shivered against the rough fabric of the armchair. He leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest, while he eyed the tiny ‘kitchen’ against the wall to his side. He bit his lip and asked:

“You want some juice or something?”

“Depends.” Kevin muttered: “If it’s freshly squeezed, then _no_.”

Mars laughed. It was deep and reverberated around his chest, while his mind wandered to the last time he served juice . . . _‘_ja_, a great idea, but now you have juice all over your thighs, my friend’ . . . _there might not have been a kitchen counter in their cheap apartment, but that morning he quickly learned that the coffee table could easily support the weight of two people and a glass of orange juice. Mars licked at his lips and blushed.

“So what brings you here, anyway?” Mars hummed. “If yer coming back for seconds, I’d be pretty against that . . . unless you want to wait like twenty minutes. If Jade thinks I’m getting it on with a hotty, it might just be the push he needs to get serious, y’know?”

“I just wanted a friend to talk to, Mars.”

“Yeah? Why? What’s eating you?”

Kevin rolled onto his side. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot, and his cheeks were so devoid of colour that they appeared sickly and sunken. It prompted Mars to glance at the clock. It hung awkwardly over the bedroom door, with the hands ticking loud enough to compete against any metronome, and it marked the time clear as the rising sun: _five-thirty_. He furrowed his brow and scratched at his stubble, until Kevin choked out:

“Nikolai might be my father.”

Mars laughed. It pulled oddly at the corners of his mouth, making his lips and cheeks ache, as he forced himself to sound jovial in the wake of a joke beyond his comprehension. Kevin stared. It was the glassy and dead gaze of a man on the brink . . . a man teetering between falling and salvation . . . _he wasn’t joking. _Silence descended. Mars rapidly blinked, as he opened his mouth and knitted his eyebrows together. Tears fell down Kevin’s cheeks afresh. Mars closed his mouth and let loose a shuddered sigh, as he ran a hand over his face. 

“_Holy fucking shit_,” whispered Mars.

“My sentiments exactly.”

“Okay, you’re going to have to explain this one, pal.” Mars rubbed at his temples. “I get that the dude is a lot older, but ain’t he your pops’ best pal? And why ain’t he ever told you before he hooked up with ya? Didn’t you notice, either? Does he look like you or –”

“Last time I looked, I have a human face.”

“No, but . . . I don’t fucking know!”

“I walked out as soon as he told me, so I can’t be certain.” Kevin rolled onto his back. “I know that he slept with my mother while my father was dead, and – as far as I can tell – it was just a one-night stand that meant nothing, but my father came back a few days later, which sort of fucked with the dates. She didn’t tell either of them until . . .”

“Until you told her you guys were fucking around?”

“I guess she planned on taking it to the grave, but she couldn’t exactly hide it when Nikolai and I were an item, because what if one of us got pregnant or something? It makes me wonder if he actually told her the truth . . . he _is_ pregnant. Pretty fucked up, eh?”

Mars groaned. He dragged himself from his armchair, before he walked around the coffee-table to the sofa . . . moving as if wading through water, yawning as if still half-asleep . . . Kevin sat upright just enough for Mars to take a seat. The old cushions dipped under his weight with a loud creak, and the cold leather pressed itself to his back, forcing out a low hiss of breath. Kevin lay back down, but rested his head on Mars’ thigh. It brought back old memories . . . _blown pupils, loud slurps, hollowed cheeks . . . saliva dripped downward . . . _

He shuffled where he sat, so as to force Kevin’s head further down his thigh. If Kevin noticed his erection, he said nothing about it and kept his face impassive, and Mars rested his head on the long locks of blond hair, while massaging the scalp with his fingers. Kevin hummed, while Mars gnawed at his lip and struggled to find words. The sofa was too small for such a tall chojin, and now – forced further down the cushions – Kevin’s legs dangled over the edge.

“I’m still in shock myself,” said Mars.

Kevin closed his eyes, as Mars worked at his scalp. The arousal soon died down, as memories of their brief fling were replaced by concern for a close friend, and – with a sigh – he wiped away the tear-trails with a callused thumb. Kevin sniffed. He sat upright beside Mars, before he leaned his head down on his shoulder and clung to his muscular arm. There was the faint scent of green-tea shampoo, along with alcohol still strong on his breath, and Mars pressed a chaste kiss to his head, before he breathed in deep and pulled back. He asked:

“How’re you – ah – feeling?”

“Like I’ve been hit by a truck,” confessed Kevin. “If he’s not my father, everything can just carry on as normal and we can pretend none of this happened, and . . . and we can raise the family that we both always dreamed. How could we abort or give them up? If there’s no blood relation between us, haven’t we just killed . . . _abandoned_ . . . our child? I swore I’d not be like Daddy. I swore I’d always love them and protect them, but this . . .

“And – And even if we _are_ related . . . they didn’t ask for this! They’re innocent! So long as they’re not carrying anything . . . not hurt or injured . . . and even if they were, wouldn’t they still have a right to life? I’m sure they could adapt and overcome any issues. But then people would _know _ . . . _they’d know_ . . . the stigma would find the kid somehow, right? I mean, unless Warsman and I could hide it in some way, but then would this even break us up? If it does, how’d we even explain that we’re no longer an item? What does it even mean?

“I still love him, but I shouldn’t, should I? If I’m related, that’d be a sin and illegal and so fucking messed up, but I can’t just turn my emotions off, and – if I could – wouldn’t that mean I don’t love him as much as I claim? How’d I live with myself if we’re _not_ related and I’d been willing to just walk away from him? From us? I feel like I’m feeling fifty things at once, and I can’t even begin to process this shit. What do I do? What would you do?”

“I – I don’t know, man. It’s a lot to take in . . .”

“I’m so angry at him, too.” Kevin screwed shut his eyes. “I want to blame him, because if he hadn’t slept with her all those years ago, then . . . then we . . . then we wouldn’t be in this mess, right? But then what if maybe I wouldn’t even_ be_ here? I just . . . I just want for him to feel what I feel, but maybe he does feel that, but he wasn’t the one betrayed and –”

The words vanished. They spilled from his lips and just stopped . . . dead before they were even born, as Kevin tensed and every muscle grew solid, and Mars pulled him close with his lips pressed tight to his blond locks. Kevin clung to him. The hands roamed over his chest for something to hold, but finding nothing in the process, and – as he sobbed – Mars quickly snatched at his hand and held it tight, even as it trembled and grew cold in his hold. The only sounds were the choked sobs and sniffs from Kevin, as he lay against Mars.

“He _slept_ with someone else,” whispered Kevin.

“Yeah, like _nine months_ before you were born.” Mars rolled his eyes. “He didn’t exactly betray you, Kev. You can’t break a trust with someone that doesn’t even exist, and it ain’t like he could of kept his legs crossed for someone he didn’t even know _would_ exist.”

“I – I haven’t been with anyone else, but he . . . _with her_ . . .”

“So what? You want to get even?”

Kevin tilted his head. He blinked away the tears from his eyes, but they still glistened on swollen and bruised lips, and those same lips sat parted with panting breaths, as his fingers entwined with Mars’ and moved slowly up his chest. A subtle – yet intentional – flicker of his little finger brushed against a sensitive nipple. Mars jumped. He drew in a quick breath, as his back arched and his erection returned. Kevin whispered, while blowing into his ear:

“Would that be a bad thing?”

Mars growled. He violently threw Kevin back. Kevin fell splayed on his back, where his arms dropped above his head and exposed his barely dressed frame, and his legs instinctively parted, as memories of their make-out sessions flooded back _. . . lips wrapped around a hard member . . . hands around a throat, as he thrust against that dripping cock . . . neck covered in visible bruises, back arched like a bow, loud screams wrenched from his mouth_ . . . Mars licked at his lips. He glanced back to the clock and crawled over Kevin.

“You’re going to regret this,” said Mars.

“If he’s my biological father, we can’t be together.” Kevin blinked back his tears. “I guess we could . . . two consenting adults and all that, but . . . I don’t know. I don’t know what I feel or what I want and I just . . . I want to feel _something_ . . . anything . . . can we just –”

“This is a lousy idea. Pain ain’t better than nothing at all . . .”

“If I regret this, least I’ll know what I want . . .”

Fingers buried into Mars’ hair. It was a gentle touch, as he pulled Mars down until their noses touched and they shared the same breath, and the other hand – scratching with short nails, so that red parallel lines ran over Mars’ abdomen – worked their way to his chest, before they tweaked at his nipple and worked it with expertise. He twisted and turned, while alternating with flicking motions and gentle strokes. Mars panted and moaned.

He snatched at Kevin’s hair.

A loud cry escaped Kevin, as he yanked back his head hard. It exposed the long length of throat, so that the trust and vulnerability were evident in equal measure, and Mars’ shaft throbbed in time with his rapidly increasing heartbeat. The weeping head leaked against the fabric of his sweatpants, while the flare head pushed at the elastic band and threatened to expose itself. It felt so good against hot and hard flesh. He wanted more.

Mars licked a long line up that throat. Kevin gasped. A low chuckle was the only response, as he licked twice more and then bit _hard_ at the crook of his neck . . . _‘ah, fuck!’_ . . . a beautiful red mark marked that pale skin, and he sucked and licked at the wound, as Kevin writhed. He moaned as those perfect hips bucked and pressed against him, while Kevin’s hands ran over his back and chest and through his hair, and finally – barely able to hold back – Mars kissed his way over his jaw and cheeks and nose, before finding his lips . . .

Kevin parted them with a sigh, allowing Mars to slip in his tongue. There was the faint taste of whiskey, something bitter and warm, and soon their tongues were duelling with dominance, exploring each other’s mouths with a burning familiarity. The only sounds were mewls and cries from Kevin, muffled by the deep kiss, and their lips refused to part for even a second, until both were desperate for air and yanked apart to gulp down oxygen. Mars forced apart those thick thighs with a rough hand, before grinding down on his erection.

A series of sounds tumbled from those wet and bruised lips . . . _‘uh, uh, oh, please, ah, uh’_ . . . Mars slapped at Kevin’s cheek, before throwing his hand around that soft neck, and tightened just enough to form a threat, but not enough to stop the airflow. He slid his free hand slowly down that muscular chest . . . pulling up the hem of his shirt, touching at his happy trail, plucking open the button to his jeans . . . Mars growled, as he slid his fingers downward . . .

Kevin delivered a ringing slap to his cheek.

“_Ja, _that would be my reaction, too.”

Mars flung himself from Kevin . . . ‘_porca merda’_! He pulled up the band of his sweatpants, covering his now semi-exposed – yet still throbbing and leaking – erection. Jade stood in the doorway with two paper bags of groceries tucked into the crook of each arm, while he wore an expression that sent a cold wave of sweat washing over every inch of Mars’ skin. The lips were pursed into a tight and white line, while his eyes were narrowed until they were mere slits, and the paper bags crinkled as he crushed them in tight fists.

Kevin choked back tears and whispered ‘sorry’ like a mantra, until Jade stared with horror at them both with mouth opened wide and eyes like saucers, and Mars – looking between the bruised and sobbing Kevin, and his panicked and furious partner – shouted out ‘_consensual, consensual_’! Jade closed his mouth. He rolled his eyes and marched to the ‘kitchen’ area, where he dropped the bags onto the portable stove and said coldly:

“I see you are still finding new conquests.”

“Hey,” spat Mars. “You like it, you should o’ put a ring on it!”

“Oh, now you wish to be engaged?” Jade rolled his eyes. “I will ‘put a ring on it’, when you stop flirting and cheating with others! It is not as though you have proposed to me, and this goes both ways, Mars. Why must I be the one to make a grand emotional display?”

“You won’t even introduce me to your father figure!”

“You keep sleeping with other people!”

“I – I was just trying to make ya jealous, you big _sauerkraut_! I . . . I told Kevin you’d be back about now, and I knew he’d not want to go further than a kiss, so I was just . . . I thought if you’d see what you were missing out on, you’d want to be serious. I want what you do! I want to be monogamous and married and get a good place and . . . and I love you!”

“Then why are we yelling at each other?”

“I don’t know! Why are we fucking yelling?”

Jade spun around. He gestured towards Mars, while a stream of German flooded the apartment in gradually increasing volume and tone, until he marched by them and stopped just short of the bedroom door. Kevin sat hunched over on the sofa, where he wiped at his cheeks and avoided Jade’s gaze, and Mars – gnawing at his lip – pushed his hand against his chest and rubbed at the skin, as if somehow he could reach into his breast and stop his heart from how it raced and ached. He opened his mouth to speak, but Jade muttered:

“I love you, too, _Dummkopf_.”

The door slammed shut, enough to make the clock rattle. A man screamed at them in Japanese, as he banged at the ceiling and threatened to call the landlord, and Kevin chuckled from the sofa, even as his smile fought against his frown. The corners of his mouth shot up and down in a rapid succession of movement, while his hands continued to tremble against his thighs. Mars groaned and took a seat again on the armchair.

“This is why I only date older men,” teased Kevin.

“Yeah, and look where that got you!”

Kevin kicked at Mars with a harsh blow. It struck just below his shin, turning Mars’ laughter into a mixture of amused chuckles and pained grunts, and Kevin collapsed back against the sofa, where he stared up at a stain of mould on the ceiling strangely in the shape of Italy. Mars hummed and slid over onto the sofa next to him. He dropped a hand onto his thigh and squeezed, before he nudged Kevin with his shoulder and whispered:

“You work out how you feel now?”

Kevin shrugged. He kept his head low, while his fingers toyed with a loose thread that held together two pieces of the leather cushion, and he picked at some of the foam that poked its head out of the torn materials. The phone in his pocket buzzed, while his arms were covered in goose-bumps from the morning chill that blew through the doors. Mars remained silent. He closed his eyes, while Jade shuffled about their bedroom and changed outfits, and his head instinctively turned, as if he could somehow catch a glimpse of flesh through a wall.

“I feel guilty,” said Kevin. “I feel guilty because I swore to be faithful to him, but here I am kissing some guy just because we had an issue, and I shouldn’t _feel_ guilty if he’s my father, but I _do_ feel guilty, so . . . I’m going around in circles in my head! If I’m guilty, it’s because I want to be with him, but I don’t want to be with him if he’s my father, but I still do and –”

“Hey, it’s okay, pal,” said Mars.

“No, it’s not okay! I look at him and I want him to hold me and make love to me and distract me from this whole nightmare, but then I look at him again and feel _disgusted_, because we might share this relation and the thought of him touching me makes me feel ill!”

Kevin wept. The tears ran fresh down his face, while he buried his face into his hands, and Mars – with a wince – pulled him close into a warm embrace. He planted one leg onto the sofa, so that he could hold Kevin closer between them and stroke at his hair. The bedroom door cricked open. Jade peeked out with eyes wide in concern. Mars raised a hand and shook his head, and Jade offered a sad nod, as he withdrew into the bedroom. The door was left slightly ajar, while Kevin continued to sob against him and muttered out:

“How can I be both attracted and repulsed by him?”

“You need to talk to Warsman,” said Mars. “Give the dude a call, tell him that you’re safe and you’ll be back, and go chat to him later. Only he can help you work this out, especially when he’s feeling the same stuff. Go talk to Warsman, okay?”

“I – I need to talk to Daddy, too.”

“You think that’s a good idea? You ain’t feeling your best and –”

“It’s not just Nikolai, is it? Daddy raised me and disciplined me and nurtured me . . . I’ve hated him and I’ve loved him . . . I know what we have is complicated, but if he turns his back on me now . . . I’d break. I need to know nothing has changed between us, and I need to know he’ll still think of me as his son . . . I can’t lose him, especially if I’ve lost –”

Kevin winced. Mars awkwardly extricated himself from Kevin, who continued to cling and claw at him with a choked _‘no, no, no’ _. . . Mars whispered over and over _‘it’s okay_’_, _before pulling the covers up to his chin and lying him down on the sofa. He pulled the phone from Kevin’s pocket, before sliding it into his hands and forcing him to grasp the device. He smiled. Kevin simply cried, as Mars patted him on the back and chirped:

“I’ll give ya some privacy, pal.”

He walked back to the bedroom, where Jade waited. 


	8. Chapter 8

_‘Nikolai, I just . . .’_

_The rain hammered against the windows. Kevin leaned against the balcony doors, while he grasped the backpack in his hand, and the rough material of the hook rubbed against his palm, while he bit into his lip with a sharp pressure. Warsman leaned against the kitchen island, at the far side of the apartment. He was distorted in the reflection. The artificial light caught at the raindrops, which made his image glow and shimmer and warp._

_Kevin adjusted his mask, before he turned to face Warsman. The apartment was dark with the night fast upon them, and the storm did little to help matters, but those white eyes glittered through the room and illuminated his black mask. He stared at the floor, as if Kevin were someplace else . . . as if he were alone . . . Kevin swallowed hard. The hardwood floors creaked underfoot, as he slowly walked towards the kitchen. He stopped just a few inches from Warsman. The air was cold between them, while every breath was audible. _

_‘I just came back to get changed,’ said Kevin. ‘I still need some time to process everything, but – I promise – I’m not turning my back on you or on our baby. I just need to crash a few nights at Mars’ place and I want to talk to Daddy, too. If I stay here, I’ll just get more confused. If we talk now, I might say something I regret. Do you mind if -?’_

_‘I do not mind,’ whispered Nikolai. ‘I may spend some time with Bibimba and Natsuko, as I also need to talk about matters, and I think this time apart will allow us to work out what we feel, without pressure from the other person. Just promise me one thing -?’_

_‘That I’ll be back? Only if you promise me the same.’_

_‘I will be here when you return, I swear.’_

_Kevin leaned forward. He paused. There was a time when they would always share a kiss, even if that simply meant pressing their two masks together with a clink, but now his heart sped and his palms grew moist. A few hissed breaths escaped him, until he quickly smacked the face-plates of their masks together. Warsman chuckled. A hand briefly came up to stroke at his neck and collarbone with the backs of rough knuckles, but it was not the familiar lingering touch or the soft stroke of a loving hand. Warsman trembled._

_‘I still love you,’ swore Nikolai._

_‘And I love you, too.’_

_A few tears pricked at his eyes. Kevin stepped back. The cold silence between them was broken only by the howling winds and the smattering of raindrops on glass, and the glow of Tokyo sent a soft light across their lounge and kitchen, as if providing a small hope. Kevin reached upward and stroked his thumb against the metal faceplate, before he pulled away towards the front door, and his hand lingered in the air between them until it fell to his side._

_‘It’s because I love you that I need space . . .’_

* * *

It was empty.

A few stray pens and papers littered the tables. The meeting-room stood as a testament to the sheer variety of _chojin_ and staff dedicated to their organisation. In a far corner, there was an upturned chair beside a table with an array of rubbish . . . a bent coffee cup, loose scraps of paper, an ink-stain on the wood . . . Terryman must have left in a rush. The perfectly polished table opposite, with its chair put properly away, marked the existence of Ramenman.

Robin shook his head and scoffed.

He collected his folders from his desk, while a few _chojin_ laughed and gossiped outside. A few stray words of Chinese and Spanish mingled together with a beautiful sound, as if the two sounds merged together to create a new linguistic union, and his smile faded as the sound grew fainter, before it finally disappeared. Robin hummed. The clock behind him marked down time, while the schedule on his folders begged for attention.

It would be a busy night . . . _meetings with Ikemen, reports sent to the Hercules Factory, a long-distance call to Alisa . . . _he cricked his neck, while he ran a hand over his shoulder and dug his fingers into his muscles. The double-doors behind him creaked open. A sigh escaped his lips, as he pressed a finger to his temple and counted to fifteen. It was unlike anyone to return to the meeting room for any reason once business was concluded . . . no doubt an item was forgotten, wrong information given . . . one time someone had their head stuck in a fence.

Robin kept busy, while the doors clicked closed. The intruder sniffed. He stopped. Every muscle in his body tensed, as his heart beat a little faster, and his canine tooth bit into his lip, as he fought back the already dying hope. He forced a smile, even as his mask hid his face from sight. The person behind him shuffled closer, stopping just a few inches from his side, and they fidgeted so much that he became a distraction in his peripheral vision. He muttered:

“I’ll be just a moment, old chap.”

“_Daddy_?”

The folders fell. Robin turned with trembling hands, as his eyes watered and his heart beat so rapidly that he grasped at his chest. A few choked breaths broke loose. He raked his eyes over his little boy, who stood with his backpack at his feet and his masked head hung low, and the way his shoulder slumped . . . back bent and arms crossed . . . he became so much smaller than his twenty years. Robin felt the tear fall hot and fast. He grabbed at Kevin.

Kevin stood still, even as Robin threw his arms around broad shoulders. He held tight against the leather coat and long locks of blond hair, while he buried his face against the crook of his neck and breathed deep, and so many memories flooded back . . . _that fresh baby smell as he cradled his newborn son, the warm hug of small hands around his waist as he worked, the laughter above his head as ice-cream spilled during his piggy-back . . . _Robin smiled. He pulled back just enough to nudge Kevin’s chin with his knuckles, as he said:

“Kevin, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I – I needed to see you.” Kevin shrugged. “I was going to crash at Mars’ place, but I remembered you were in Japan and . . . I don’t know . . . can I stay with you for a bit? I don’t want to be alone, but I don’t want to go home . . . it’s okay, isn’t it?”

The tears pricked at Robin’s eyes . . . _he needs me . . . _the world ceased to exist, except for his racing heart and the sight of his eldest son. The smile beneath his mask trembled, as tears spilled down and absorbed into the protective foam beneath the steel, and his hands shook at his sides, as he edged forwards and backwards closer to Kevin. He half-laughed as his words stuck in his throat, while Kevin kept his head low and kicked at the floor. A folder lay upturned by his foot, marking the grades of students at the school, but Robin kicked it away.

“My home is your home, lad,” said Robin.

“You say that, but –”

“_I_ wasn’t the one to run away from home, Kevin.”

_Shit_. The words tumbled from his mouth. He barely found time to snatch at Kevin’s wrist, as he spun around and snatched at his backpack, and it took all his strength to hold Kevin back, enough that his old joints ached with a throbbing burn. Kevin scoffed. He yanked back, freeing himself from Robin. Robin grabbed again. He locked his hands around strong and muscular upper arms, with enough force that red marks appeared beneath the leather, and he lowered his head to lock eyes with Kevin, even as the mesh over the eyepiece hid them away.

“I’m sorry, son.” Robin winced. “I guess we both still have a lot of resentments to work through, don’t we? This . . . well . . . this whole mess hardly makes things easier, and I know this is perhaps the most awkward things have been between us, but . . . you’re my _son_, Kevin!”

“Am I, though?”

“Of course, what else would you be?”

“Things were strained between us at the best of times, but now –”

“Listen here, Kevin.” Robin shook him. “You are the biggest brat that I have ever known, and there were times where I cried myself to sleep or thought to just outright disown you, and . . . and I know I had my faults, too. I was the reason why you ran away and the reason you thought you couldn’t come back, and I pushed you to the brink, but . . .

“You _never_ stopped being my baby boy. I remember your mother telling me about the pregnancy, and how I wept to think of all I’d teach you and show you and what I’d tell you, and I remember holding you in my arms for the first time, while your smile made my heart skip a beat and I swore to always protect you. I remember collecting newspaper clippings of all your matches, and I remember hiding in the wings to watch each and every one.

“It’s my name on your birth certificate. In fact, I was so determined to start afresh with you that we abandoned the ‘Robin’ name . . . you wouldn’t just be a copy of me, but your own person and with your own lineage, and so you started a new line of the ‘Mask’ clan. You’re the product of all my hopes and dreams, and you’re my very purpose for living.”

“But the blood tests might say that –”

“To hell with the blood tests, you’re _my_ son!”

Robin shook him again. Kevin pushed back. They stood a foot apart, with eyes locked together, but now the contact between them was broken, and the space was enough that Robin stumbled back and gripped onto the desk. He wrapped his fingers around the wood, until his knuckles turned white and his joints ached. Kevin fidgeted from foot to foot. Robin chuckled to be reminded of how Brocken had once chastised Kevin . . .

In the face of the legends, he often returned to being a young boy. The same young boy that on stage, waiting for an award, would remove his glove and bashfully scratch at his head and mumble with insecurities . . . Robin raised a hand. He gestured to a nearby chair. Kevin shrugged and tossed his bag beside the desk, before throwing himself into the chair. He toyed with a stray pen-lid, where Buffaloman must have played with it during the meeting and forgotten it in his rush to escape. Robin came around and leaned on the table.

“I told Nikolai that you’ll always be my boy,” confessed Robin. “It was my greatest fear that he might . . . he might . . . he might take you away from me. It’d be foolish to think that our relationship is healthy or enviable, so it’d be so easy for him to sweep in and steal you away, and the thought of you calling someone else ‘Daddy’ just breaks my heart.”

“If I had the heart, there’d be a joke to make there.”

“And that . . . even your smart-ass comments . . . I miss them. I – I think that a paternity test would be a good idea, what with the baby and all, but I’ll be honest . . . whatever those tests say, it won’t change a thing. Fuck, I’ll fight to the death to keep you in my life.”

Kevin laughed. He spun the lid around and around, where he rested his head on his forearm, and Robin paled at the sight . . . _‘Sit up straight, boy! You won’t ever be a great _chojin_ unless you focus on your studies. You will play some other time’ _ . . . Robin ran his hands over his face. A draught came from an open window, which rustled at the leftover papers and pieces of rubbish, and Kevin tossed the pen-lid at him with a half-felt gesture. Robin caught it with quick reflexes. He tossed it back and raised an eyebrow, as Kevin laughed:

“Did you just swear?”

“I was a bad boy once,” teased Robin.

Robin kicked him beneath the table. It brought a soft laugh from Kevin, who returned to toying with the pen-lid . . . _fidgeting with his pencils, origami with scraps of paper . . . the rap of a cane against his knuckles . . . _the smile faded from his lips. Robin scratched at his neck, while Kevin awkwardly flicked the lid across the room. They fell silent. The two of them stared at opposite points of the room, while Robin listened to the sound of racing footsteps outside and someone calling out to slow down. Robin whispered:

“Are you – ah – planning on doing a blood test?”

“They can probably do it on saliva, too.” Kevin shrugged. “I haven’t spoken to Nikolai, but I think he’d agree to doing a paternity test . . . I – I didn’t want to bring it up, in case you thought that I was trying to find a way to break links between us, but it’s not like that, I swear to you, Daddy! We just need to know, because we need to know where we stand . . .”

“Aye, and Warsman will need to have the baby tested, if there’s a close relation. Am I right that it’s too far along to consider an abortion? I suppose it’d also be the final nail in the coffin for your whole . . . _affair_, too. I’ve spoken to a doctor, Kevin, so when you’re ready . . .”

“Can we get it done today? I don’t want to chicken out.”

“Of course,” said Robin. “I’ll make sure he sends the results to you directly, so that there’s no wait and no anxiety, but . . . I’m – I’m afraid. I hope that doesn’t make me selfish, but a part of me doesn’t want to know . . . silly, isn’t it? An old man like me afraid of this . . .”

“It wouldn’t change anything, would it? I – I don’t want to lose you . . . it’s been nice since the Olympics, almost like we were a family again, and I know it’ll take time, but I really did want things to be good again. I want my child to have his grandfather and . . . _oh god_, I can’t explain to my son why his father is also his grandfather, I can’t!”

Robin winced. He bit into his lip, as Kevin’s back jerked with wracked sobs. The dark blue of his mask was buried deep into his hands, while choked and broken huffs of air fell from his lips, and Robin came around the table to lean beside him on the floor. A sharp pain struck his kneecap. A terrible ache tore into his muscle. The scars accumulated from a lifetime carried a heavy weight, but his hand moved to his heart and pushed against his chest. He opened his mouth to speak, but Kevin cut in before a single word could escape. He gasped:

“Does Mum hate me?”

“No, not at all,” gasped Robin. “If anything, she was worried you’d hate her, because . . . well, I can’t say that I reacted well to the situation, but to be _you_ . . . to be directly affected by everything . . . I just wish I’d known sooner, so we could have told you!”

“And you’re not going to leave me? You promise?”

“I’ll always be your daddy, son. Always.”

A pair of arms flung around his neck. Kevin hugged him. It was a tight embrace, as he grasped hard at Robin’s cloak and buried his face against his neck, and Robin – with tears spilling over his cheeks – gently placed his hands on Kevin’s back. There were no memories of their last hug . . . no associations of an earlier time . . . Robin held tighter. He screwed shut his eyes and broken sobs echoed that of Kevin. He cried all the more, as Kevin whispered:

“Thank you, Daddy.”


	9. Chapter 9

It was quiet . . .

The apartment was empty, save for a sole figure underneath a thick blanket. Warsman lay curled on the couch in a foetal position, where his fists held the soft fabric of the blanket over his mouth and below his nose, and – with slow and steady breaths – his chest visibly rose and fell in a hypnotic rhythm. The light from his eyes was extinguished, as his mask reflected the light from the television and strange shadows gave life to the lifeless metal.

Kevin tossed his backpack by the door.

He gently closed to the door, so as to avoid the loud click. It took time to lock the door and turn on the security alarm, but – once done – he pulled off his shoes and dropped them haphazardly beside his backpack, before slowly padding across the floor with the muffled steps of socked feet. He dropped down beside Warsman. The mask was cold to touch, as he ran his callused fingers over the join of the helmet. Kevin sighed.

The helmet was easy to remove. It required only the slightest raise of his head, as Kevin cupped his chin and lightly lifted him from the plump sofa cushion, and a burst of blond hair spilled out in a messy pile upon his pillow. Kevin toyed with the edges of the mask . . . _‘you’re beautiful, no matter what they told you’ _. . . it was too intimate to remove, but that had never been a concern in previous months. Kevin bit his lip, as he ran his fingertips over the warming metal, and leaned forward to press a chaste kiss to the forehead.

“Sorry I was gone so long,” whispered Kevin.

He slid his hand beneath the blanket, where it rested on the swollen stomach. _It had grown_. A smile broke over Kevin’s face, as he stroked at the taut skin, and inside was their miracle . . . a small, growing form . . . in which a week brought so much development. He flinched. He pulled back and his hand and shook his head . . . _blond hair shared by both parents, height shared by both parents_ . . . Kevin gripped the mask hard. He took in slow breaths, as he forced his heart to slow down, and placed the helmet onto the coffee-table.

Warsman murmured. He rolled onto his back, as the light of his eyes flickered. The light soon returned to full strength, while his head turned towards Kevin, and a soft chuckle escaped his lips, as Kevin removed his helmet in turn and dropped it beside the one on the table. The television behind them was alive with images of a wrestling match, but the sound was muted and Warsman’s groan echoed out about the apartment. Kevin muttered with a blush:

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It is okay,” said Warsman. “I ought to have woken up, anyway. I only took a rest here due to the morning sickness being particularly difficult, but I had set an alarm to be awake for when you returned, or – at least – I believed that I did . . . I should apologise for being asleep. Did you have a nice time with Robin? He has stopped talking about your visit to me.”

“Yes, I noticed that.” Kevin rolled his eyes. “I would’ve stayed longer, but I was fed up with being treated like a bloody child. I know he meant well, but between being told to tidy my room and asked if I wanted to play catch with –! Do people even do that?”

“Do what?”

“Play catch? I have a feeling that he’s read some outdated parenting book, or he’s talked to one of his idiot friends, and he’s gone ‘_ah, that’s a rather good way to bond’_. The only good side is that – without someone tidying up after me – I kind of learned to appreciate my friends and family a lot more . . . I feel like I should send you and Mars ‘thank you’ cards.”

Warsman laughed. It was a soft and vibrant sound, which made his chest rise and fall in time with each and every chuckle, and – as he struggled to sit upright – he patted the sofa beside him, where Kevin climbed upward and beneath the blanket. The quilted fabric rested over their laps, although it fell beneath the swell of Warsman’s stomach. Kevin stared at the exposed skin. He toyed with the edges of the blanket, as Warsman leaned back and ran his hands over an imprint of a foot . . . their son was kicking. _He was kicking_.

“Just how bad was the mess?” Warsman asked.

It was Kevin’s turn to laugh. He rested his feet on the coffee-table, while he threw an arm around the back of the sofa and rested it behind Warsman, and the touch of cool skin – and the tickle of blond hair – nearly made him forget his concerns. They did not lean into one another. They did not hold hands. There was no denying that things were changed, and yet still Warsman angled his body towards Kevin and Kevin lightly moved his thumb to brush against Warsman’s broad shoulder. Kevin blinked back tears, as he forced a smile and said:

“Do you know a glass of milk turns solid, if you leave it on a windowsill long enough? I honestly think that Daddy was about ready to throw me out, or we’d have started fighting again, but it was also nice at times . . . we’d eat together and train together . . . I even woke up to him tucking me in once, like he was trying to make up for lost time.”

“He will be a good grandfather,” said Warsman.

“I – I just . . .” Kevin winced. “Yeah, I guess. I mean . . . we established that – no matter what – he’s my father and he’ll be our child’s grandfather, but that doesn’t mean . . . it could be that . . . I – I don’t know. The blood test results should be back today, right?”

Warsman pulled away. He stood with a struggle, as several seconds passed and he finally found his balance, and – with a groan – he walked towards the kitchen, where there was a slight waddle to his steps and an arch to his back. Kevin winced. He followed behind Warsman, where he stopped just behind him on the kitchen island. Kevin bit into his lip, as his hands paused just before the small of the black back, and he drew in a deep breath.

_A small touch_.

There was no flinch, no hiss . . . no refusal . . . Kevin pressed his hands flat against the skin, before he rubbed in deep and slow circles. A low hiss escaped Warsman, who threw back his head and relaxed his muscles, and Kevin smiled before pressing a chaste kiss to his shoulder, as he continued to ease the pains of pregnancy with his hands. Warsman edged back against his fingers with small moans, as he leaned against the marble counter, and whispered:

“What happens if we are biologically related?”

Kevin paused. He lowered his head . . . _a son would not touch his father like this _. . . there was no hiding that Warsman was almost naked, while a massage was a gesture so intimate that even some friends declined such a touch, and here there were alone . . . _at night_. Kevin swallowed hard. He returned to the massage, while he lowered his head and rested it in the crook of an otherwise warm neck. Kevin choked out in a broken voice:

“Can I be honest with you?”

The colour drained from Warsman. He grew pale, as he slowly turned and reached upward, and his hands came to rest around Kevin’s neck, where he brushed his thumb along his jaw with a slow and gentle touch. They locked eyes, as the flickering from the television illuminated the apartment. It cast a glow about Warsman. The way it caught his mask emphasised the light in his eyes, which glowed bright in the darkness, and a part of Kevin wanted to rip back the mask and see the blue iris behind the metal.

“Kevin,” said Warsman. “What is the matter?”

“I – I kissed Mars.” Kevin blinked back tears. “It was just one time, I swear! It was when I crashed at his place, before I went to stay with Daddy, and I was so confused and angry and depressed . . . it was like the whole world was crashing down on me. I was trapped and claustrophobic, like everything was out of my control, and I just . . .

“I needed to know what I wanted. I figured that – if we were related – that’d probably be the end of us, right? I couldn’t feel guilty about being intimate with someone else, because there’d be nothing to feel guilty about, because anything between us would be illegal and wrong and just . . . if I kissed him and felt nothing, it’d mean that I could move on. I didn’t think about what it’d mean if we weren’t related, but I guess that was the point.

“I kind of thought that you’d leave me, if I did kiss someone else, because who’d want to stay with a cheater? At least things would end on _my_ terms, and I could regain some control, and maybe that kind of closure would make me feel less . . . I don’t know . . . helpless? At the same time, if I did feel guilty, wouldn’t that mean that I _did_ want to be with you? But then wanting to be with you doesn’t mean that I _can_ be with you, does it? And then –

“_Fuck_!” Kevin kicked at the island. “Mars tried taking it further, so I slapped him. You know what’s really fucked up? I feel more confused than ever! I slapped him because I was betraying the man that I loved, and how can I love someone that I might be related to and might have to break up with, and then how can I turn off what I feel, and –”

Kevin pressed hard at his temples. He paced back and forth, while Warsman awkwardly slid onto a kitchen stool, and his muted footsteps offered no solace, as the quiet returned with only his hissed breaths to offer the slightest of sounds. Warsman rubbed at his stomach, as he whispered words of Russian to the child growing within, and Kevin ran his hands deeply through his hair, before he stopped and let his tears fall down his cheeks. He turned to face Warsman, where he offered out a hand that was taken with a small chuckle.

“I do not judge you for a kiss,” said Warsman.

The metal mask pressed itself to his hand. It was an approximation of a kiss, followed with a gentle squeeze and pulling Kevin onto the stool beside him, and Kevin – falling onto the stool – sighed and dropped himself against Warsman’s side. He wrapped his arms around him, while he entwined their fingers together. A new photo-frame sat beside the refrigerator. Kevin furrowed his brow, as he saw the three-dimensional ultrasound of their unborn son beneath the freshly polished glass, and he struggled to form the necessary question:

“What happens if we _are_ related, though?”

“I do not know,” murmured Warsman. “I suppose we could break up. It would be expected. I think you really would be disowned if we continue at that point, including by your grandparents, and I would likely be expelled from the Justice League, as well as lose the majority of my friends for taking advantage of your person. It would be the end of us.”

“If we broke up, I could find someone else, right? I could date Mars, if what he has with Jade falls through, and I bet Jacqueline would probably be your type. I bet it’d ruin our friendship, though . . . knowing we still feel for each other, but seeing each other with someone else.”

“I would have to watch his hands over you . . .”

“I’d know she knows how you taste . . .”

“The jealousy, the longing . . .”

“The resentment . . .”

Kevin pulled back. He crept around the kitchen island, where he yanked open the double-doors of the refrigerator, and a selection of home-cooked meals greeted him . . . _a cottage-pie with ‘I love you’ written on the lid, a chicken casserole with ‘eat me by tomorrow’ on a post-it note on its side . . . _Kevin bit into his lip, until he tasted iron. He slammed shut the door and leaned against it, with his forehead pressed to the cold metal, as he spat:

“We still haven’t answered the question.”

“I think we have,” choked Warsman.

A cold silence descended between them, as Warsman shuffled around the island. He stopped just beside Kevin, where he dropped a hand onto his shoulder, and a gentle squeeze provided a momentary reassurance, before it dropped away with a heavy gesture. They stood beside one another, with each in a constant state of movement . . . fidgeting hands, lips opening and closing, kicks at the tiled floor . . . Kevin longed for the days when he would be bent over the kitchen island or Warsman would laugh as they cooked a dish together. 

“I have prepared the spare room for myself.” Warsman winced. “I think it is best that we have separate beds and bedrooms for now, to remove any temptation, and we can continue to talk about the paternity results, as we process how we feel about matters. We also need to know what we would do in the worst-case situation. How would we raise this child?”

“To-Together?” Kevin ran his hands over his face. “I think I’d have to put my foot down. I do _not_ want them to know the truth, Nikolai. No child should have to endure that! I also think maybe it should be just a family matter . . . maybe even just between you and me?”

“Kevin . . .”

“I’m not saying to just _ignore_ the results and carry on, but I just don’t want the judgement and the pity and the scandal from people. We could just claim to have broken up, if you think the results would be a deal-breaker, and co-parent our son with some sort of joint custody, while we both slowly move on, although . . . I – I don’t _want_ to move on.”

“You don’t want to move on now, but you don’t know that –”

“I know how I feel, Nikolai. I want you.”

Warsman hissed. He stepped forward and clasped tearstained cheeks in his hands, while he leaned close and pressed their foreheads together, and Kevin ran his fingers over a firm chest, lighting brushing against nipples and stroking against his collarbone. They gazed into each other’s eyes, although gazes lingered on the smallest details . . . _a slight scar just below the ear, the irregular beating of the pulse in his neck . . . _Kevin swore to memorise every inch of skin, even when Warsman stepped back and said in the lowest of voices:

“You want me as a part of you believes we are not related.”

“Well, there’s still a chance that we’re not, right?”

_Silence_. Warsman stepped backwards again, as his hands lingered on Kevin and soon dropped away without a sound, and he wandered back towards the sofa with his head low, until he dropped down on the cushions with a sigh. Kevin stumbled over his feet, as he all but ran towards the sofa. He leaned on the arm with leg, while Warsman simply took a small brown envelope from the top of the coffee-table, and his long fingers worked on removing a folded letter from inside, even as Kevin crawled closer to him with watery eyes.

“Right?” Kevin begged: “_Right?_”

“This arrived this morning, Kevin.”

The letter moved towards him. Kevin dropped down onto his buttocks, as his heart raced and a painful lump formed in his throat, and – with trembling hands – he took the letter and held it in his lap, as he sat cross-legged beside Warsman. The blankets were scrunched and creased beneath him, while he gnawed at his lip and stared at the address and header on the expensive looking paper . . . _the paternity clinic_ . . . it was sooner than he expected, but it was amazing what money could buy when one had the resources. Warsman rapidly blinked.

“You should read it, my love.”

Kevin held tight to the letter, enough that the paper creased in his grip. Tears dropped down. They stained the ink and bled it outward, while the small patter of teardrops on paper echoed out, and – with broken sobs – he unfolded the letter with trembling hands. The words blurred through his unfocussed gaze, but soon he made out the key part . . . the letter fell. It drifted downward where it fell on the floor and rested with a small crackle. Kevin stared emptily ahead. He wept in earnest, as he hunched forward and choked out:

“You’re my father . . .”

Warsman did not touch him. A tear rolled down his mask, leaving a silvery trail against the black, and his hands froze over his stomach, where the foot of their son kicked outward and left a visible mark against the flesh. Kevin swallowed back the lump. A terrible pain struck at his head, as he swayed where he sat and a cold sweat broke over his skin. Warsman touched at his arm. It did not linger, while the gentle hold was strictly platonic, as he whispered:

“I am.”


	10. Chapter 10

“Time to wake up, Princess.”

Mars kicked at the sofa. It threatened to tip back, as it tilted on two legs. A loud slam echoed about the lounge, when Mars pulled back his foot and gravity dragged the sofa downward, where it slammed against the hardwood floor. Kevin jolted awake. The blanket fell about his waist. A lump of sleep marked one eye, while his yellow t-shirt was creased and strained with sweat, and the left side of his hair was flat with a visible parting from how he slept.

A loud laugh escaped Mars, as he tossed Kevin his mask. It was yanked over his head with a loud grunt, while Mars threw himself onto the nearby armchair and dropped his feet onto the coffee-table, and there – centre of the glass – sat a brown envelope and opened letter. The contents were in English. He furrowed his brow and made out a few stray words, but Jade flipped the paper over and sat on the arm of the sofa. Mars huffed. He reached out slowly again towards the paper, only for Jade to slap at his hand and raise a warning finger.

Warsman hummed from the kitchen. The electric kettle clicked off, only to be followed by a series of clicks and clatters, as he prepared a tray full of teas, and Kevin – stretched out on the sofa – attempted to rub at his eyes, only to hit metal several times. Mars laughed, while Warsman chuckled. The tray of drinks was swiftly brought over and placed on the table, before Warsman fell onto the armchair opposite Mars, and Kevin muttered:

“Who bloody let you two gits inside?”

_A low cough._

Kevin winced, as he slowly turned his head. Warsman tilted his head and waved, in such a way that Mars could almost picture the smirk behind the mask, and Kevin – with a few creative curses – fell back onto his pillows and groaned. The swell to Warsman’s stomach was barely hidden beneath his polo-neck sweater, and his hands continuously ran over the soft wool with the briefest of touches, as words of Russian tumbled from his lips. Mars bit into his cheek to force back his laughter, as he asked in a teasing voice:

“Ain’t you going to yell at him?”

“I think he knows better than that,” said Jade. “It is not easy to be pregnant, and they also must live together once we have left the apartment. I doubt that – with the pregnancy – they would have quite the same stress relievers open to them to resolve any arguments, as such it is always best not to shout or insult one another in the first place.”

“Aw, ain’t that a cute euphemism: ‘stress relief’”.

“Well, I know one set of stress-balls you will _not_ be squeezing, _mein Lieber_.”

“Least it’s not just me in the dog-house.” Mars kicked at the sofa. “Yo, can you move your fat ass, Kev? You got guests. You can at least let Jade sit down or something, unless you plan on cuddling up with Warsman? He probably needs a sofa to himself.”

Kevin pulled back his legs. The blanket lifted with them, creating a tent-like structure, and Jade – with a whispered ‘thank you’ – sat beside him, where he followed by guiding bare feet onto his lap with firm touch. It was strange with the blanket over them, but Mars knew better than to joke about how the foot-rub looked from an outside perspective. The rhythmic movements preceded a soft sigh. Kevin glared at Mars, but the gaze did not linger . . . instead, it moved to that piece of paper and a watery sheen distorted his pupils. Kevin choked out:

“You _know_ we’re biologically related, right?”

“Yeah, you told me.”

“So maybe _that’s_ why I chose to crash on the sofa?”

Mars winced. He took a mug of tea into hand. The steam billowed upward, casting a mist about the luxury apartment, and every breath cast ripples across the brown surface, as he avoided the gazes of all three men that stared in his direction. A faint tune of a _balalaika_ from a radio in the master bedroom, where there was no scent of sex or cologne, but just . . . nothing. The door to the spare bedroom was held open by a bassinette, with the inside filled with boxes and toys and piles of small clothes. Mars bit his lip and asked:

“So who else knows?”

“I’ve only told two you two chaps,” muttered Kevin. “A part of me thinks that Daddy might know, as he’s the one who paid for the paternity tests and arranged them, so it’d only be natural for them to send him a letter, but . . . he’s said nothing. He asked if we received a letter, and I told him we’d open it together in person, and he just accepted that.”

“You think he’s pretending not to know?”

“That would be my theory,” said Warsman. “Alisa would be devastated to think that she had caused all these problems with her lies, and she is truly a sensitive soul. Robin also feels his relationship with Kevin is tenuous at best, and he would be truly afraid that not being the biological parent would be the death knell in their relationship. If he thinks Kevin does not know, or is willing to pretend, then I can foresee him willing to live a lie in turn.”

“Gee, that sounds pretty healthy, don’t it?”

“In any case, we have decided not to tell any other people. We hope you respect that. It was important for you both to know the truth, as Kevin deserves an outlet and a safe place to talk, but – especially while we work out what we both want – it would be detrimental to tell anyone else, lest it interfere with our eventual decision and alter our course of action.”

The music in the master bedroom stopped. There was a loud whirring sound, like a stereo skipping a few tracks or switching into stand-by mode, and finally there was silence. There were a few hushed breaths from the armchair, a few sips of tea from the sofa, but otherwise . . . _silence_. Jade pulled his hands from beneath the sofa, where he rested them over the mound of Kevin’s feet. Mars swirled the contents of his mug, while he furrowed his brow and stared at the paper on the tabletop. Jade let loose a low his of breath.

“You wish to stay an item,” observed Jade.

“Not really,” muttered Kevin. “I mean, we might? It’s a lot to process.”

“We decided to pretend to be a couple for now,” added Warsman. “If we wish to continue as a couple, no one else would know the truth and it would thus be possible. If we wish to part ways, we could come up with a commonplace excuse and avoid the stigma of incest. Kevin was sleeping in the spare room, to avoid temptation and complications, but . . .”

“It’s been impractical, now it’s the bloody nursery. I’ve been crashing out on the sofa, but we’ve planned a trip to England so that we can talk to Daddy in person, and plus we wanted our baby to be born back home, too. He’s – Daddy’s going to set up the spare room for us.”

“It would arouse suspicion if asked for separate rooms.”

“He’d ask why, then he’d know, and we’d . . .”

Kevin buried his face into his hands. A few choked sobs broke from behind the mask, until the cries turned into a low and steady groan, and – finally – he punched at the back of the sofa, jolting it back a few inches and startling Jade. The sofa fell back down. It rattled a photo-frame on the coffee-table . . . _Warsman and Kevin immortalised behind the glass, standing together on the ring to accept an award _. . . if the press got wind of their biological relation, the rumours would fly and speculation would be rife. Mars winced.

“I just feel _lost_,” gasped Kevin.

“You cannot just turn off an emotion,” continued Warsman. “I still love Kevin, too. It would only be natural, would it not? We spent years without knowledge of our connection; we have bonded as equals, we have spent quality time together as friends, and we have known each other intimately as we have known no other. It is a lot to just forget due to a letter.”

“That’s the pissing thing, though, because what are the laws on this? If he’s not my legal father, does it still count legally as incest? If we told people, would we be forced to change my birth certificate or get social services involved for our kid or have to –”

“We certainly could not get married, could we?”

“Exactly!” Kevin winced. “Even if it was legal somehow, what about when it gets to the part: ‘does anyone object’? There’s a stigma, too, and I wouldn’t want people looking at me weird, which isn’t even touching on how the tabloids would react. It’d be a scandal.”

“So we tell no one, but in the meantime -?” Warsman shook his head. “We still need to resolve whether to stay together or break apart. We know we cannot tell anyone, which gives us space and time to work through things at our own pace, but I think it is something that I could potentially look past . . . we technically have looked past it for all these years.”

Mars bit into his cheek. A cold wave of nausea swept over him, as he cast his eyes to the photographs that lined the walls, and a strong family resemblance was hard to ignore, even if it might be easily missed unless one knew for what to look for on them. He ran a hand through his red hair, while he cocked his head to the side. The headlines practically wrote themselves, and there was no denying the press would spin it in the worst way, with insinuations that they had known from the start. He shook his head and sipped his tea.

“I think you two should break up,” said Jade.

Mars choked. The tea spat out from his mouth. It burst forth in a cloud of spray, before he coughed and spluttered and hunched forward. Warsman lowered his head. He leaned forward and took a cloth from beneath the table, while locking eyes with Mars, and – as tears streamed down Mars’ face – he almost missed the low _‘ko-ho’_ and flicker of light. Warsman wiped down the table, before pocketing the letter with a loud hiss of breath. Mars spun around in his chair, so that he faced Jade directly, and said in a loud voice:

“You would want them to stay together, after all of this?”

“How can ya suggest that to those guys?”

“This drastically changes their relationship, Mars.” Jade rolled his eyes. “This redefines everything! It is like if I found out that _mein Lehrer_ was my father; I might not hate him, and it would not undo what we had, but I could not trust him and I would certainly see him in a new light. I am not sure I would want him as my trainer.”

“Yeah, well, Warsman ain’t his trainer, is he?”

“Precisely! This is his lover and partner, and you think that he could overlook their new bond? Any time that they make love, this will be at the back of their minds. Any time that they hold each other, they shall have this truth darkening their intimacy. There are – what is it that they say in English? – plenty more fish in the sea. They will find love again.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Mars shook his head. “What about fighting for love? You can’t just break up with someone because the going gets tough! Ain’t you got a loyal bone in your body? You’d have to be a fickle son of a bitch to turn your back on a guy you love.”

“Oh, so now I am a ‘fickle son of a bitch’?”

“You’re fucking twisting my words!”

Mars threw himself back in the armchair. He dropped a foot onto the coffee-table, but the table was soon yanked back by two black and callused hands, and – as his foot fell to the floor – a look from Warsman warned him against trying again. Mars pursed his lips, as his heart raced and sounded loud in his ears. He clawed at the air. He cricked his neck. The breaths from his chest grew quicker and quicker, while his vision grew more and more blurred, and soon he jabbed a finger toward Jade. He curled his lips and spat:

“So you’d leave me? Is that it?”

“Of course I would not leave you,” shouted Jade.

“Well, why the fuck not? What’s so different?”

“The difference is that I love you!”

“Yeah, well, I love you, too!” Mars huffed. “You’re the one saying that we should break up, if anything goes wrong, though, and that ain’t right! I fought hard to get you, like Kevin fought hard to get Warsman, and who the fuck gives up something that great?”

“I have no plans to give you up, either! But this is different!”

“Yeah, well, it sounds like you’re giving up on us!”

Jade growled. Mars opened his mouth, but something hard and cold struck him firmly in the forehead . . . _it hurt_. He raised a hand to rub at the small indent on his skin, before pulling back his hand to check for blood, but the skin was pale and showed no sign of redness. He huffed, as he dropped his arm. The skin of his forearm brushed against something small and soft, almost like felt, and – as he looked down – a small box rested on his lap. Jade shouted:

“I want to marry you, _Dummkopf_!”

His heart stopped. He gently took the box in hand, as he cracked it open and saw the soft cushion inside, and – squeezed between the two parts – sat a gold ring with a faint pattern inscribed around the outside, with four rubies subtle positioned at four points. Mars swallowed hard, as he panted and took out the ring. It slid onto his finger. _It was a perfect fit_! Tears spilled over his eyes, as he rapidly blinked and shouted in a broken voice:

“Yeah, well, I want to marry you, too!”

“Good,” snapped Jade.

“Good!”

Mars brought the ring to his lips, as he pressed a kiss to the metal. He blushed to see how Jade looked downward, where he massaged again at Kevin’s feet, and Mars let out a shuddered breath, as he toyed with the ring around his finger. They smiled. The silence between them was warm and comfortable, as Mars’ heart slowed and his eyes raked along Jade’s form to memorise every second of the lingering moment. A tear fell.

A long and loud laugh escaped Kevin. He threw back his head and clutched at his stomach, while Jade chuckled in turn and rubbed at the back of his neck, and Mars stared down at the ring that glittered in the morning light. The cup of tea sat between his thighs, while the small box sat on the arm of the armchair. Warsman struggled to stand, while a few hissed laughs joined in with the others, and soon Kevin rolled onto his side, as he finished with a long ‘_ah’ _and tried to wipe away his tears through his mask. He shrugged and sighed.

“I miss that,” whispered Kevin.

“What? The total lack of romance?”

“No, just . . . being yourself.” Kevin smiled. “I miss that being able to express yourself, without second-guessing yourself, and like now . . . now I wonder . . . I’m always wondering what Warsman’s thinking and feeling, whether my reactions and actions are normal, what people would think if they knew . . . it’s tough. I just want a break.”

“From each other or . . . you know?”

“No, not from each other. I mean, just from Japan and from these papers and from work and from . . . _everything_ . . . I was thinking of staying in England. We could come back here after the baby is born and wrap things up, but stay mostly in England for a fresh start. We could live either as a romantic couple, or amicable exes, but be free from all this . . . _just this_.”

“I am inclined to agree,” said Warsman. “I think here there is too much risk of others uncovering the truth, and we would also be haunted with the guilt of hiding such a big secret, as this is where many of our friends live and work and visit. We are also isolated from our cultures, our heritages, our languages . . . it would be nice to be among family, with Kevin’s parents and grandparents, brother and cousins. We could easily ship our things over.”

Mars sipped at the tea, while Warsman walked to the kitchen. The pots and pans were far less than he last remembered, with most of the photographs and magnets removed from the refrigerator, and a few cardboard boxes peeked out from behind the island. A few letters sat piled against the far wall, some important looking and others written in English. He shook his head with a smile and scoff. The mantelpiece was empty. It was the first time he noticed, but there was no sign of Chloe’s mask or his broken piece of tail . . . it was empty.

“So you’re leaving us, huh,” said Mars.

“I guess we are,” said Kevin.

Kevin swung his legs around the sofa. He planted them on the floor, while the blankets dragged with him and bundled around his waist, and he scratched at his neck with a yawn, while he reached beneath the table to a shiny paper-wallet. The paper was flipped open, as Kevin pulled out two airline tickets. London. First-class. _One-way_. Kevin dropped the tickets beside the upturned paternity results, before he leaned forward with his forearms upon his knees. Warsman clattered about in the kitchen, while Jade hummed.

“We’re leaving next week,” said Kevin. “We’re going to tell Daddy that the results say he’s biologically my father, and we’ll just shred and burn the results here. If he does have a copy that he’s unopened, we’ll find a way to dispose of it and continue living the lie . . .”

“We will still keep our friends in our lives,” added Warsman.

“Yeah, I think it’d be rather good to have a baby-shower back home. We also could visit Japan, and our son would likely join the Muscle League when he’s older, too, so we’d happily move back to Japan then, but in the meantime . . . we just want to get away and be ourselves, work out what we want and don’t want. It’s best for our son, too.”

Mars shared a look with Jade. The tickets and boxes spoke of a mind already decided, but the lingering photographs on the walls spoke of some doubts . . . _group shots of the New Generation, landscapes of the Japanese countryside . . . _Mars bit into his cheek. He dropped the mug of tea onto the table, as he ran a hand through his hair with a low sigh. Mars stood and walked around to the side of the sofa, where he dropped a hand onto Kevin’s shoulder, and – with a gentle squeeze – held onto him as he asked in a quiet voice:

“So this is it?”

A silence fell between them. Kevin reached up to touch at that hand, where he squeezed back and heaved a shuddered sigh, but – with an audible swallow – he nodded with a smile. It broke across his eyes, barely visible beneath the mesh of the mask, and Jade climbed to his feet in turn, so as to hold onto Kevin’s arm. He remained between them, as the unspoken goodbye lingered in the air, and finally Kevin choked out in a whisper:

“This is it . . .”


	11. Chapter 11

“My son . . .”

Tears streamed down Robin’s cheeks. He tasted them beneath his mask, salty on his trembling lips, and his vision distorted as the world shifted through them. Kevin and Warsman stood on the porch. The rain outside pounded down overhead, where it soaked dripped over the blue steel of Kevin’s mask and matted into his blond hair. Warsman kept a step down, with his hands running over the swell of his stomach, and he nodded to Robin.

Robin stepped aside, as he ushered them into the hall. They dripped with water, with clothes clinging to their skin, and Alisa handed them a set of soft towels, before warmly telling them that a hot bath waited upstairs and their suitcases would be put away by the time they came out of the bathroom. Robin chuckled and sniffed, as he choked back on his tears. There would no doubt be a hot meal waiting for them on Kevin’s old desk, while Alisa would sneak out their nightwear and heat it for them on the bed with a hot-water bottle . . .

It was as if everything was normal, and yet . . . Robin sighed. The tears refused to stop, even as he closed the door and dragged their bags to the staircase, and – when he returned – Kevin had removed his helmet and was towel-drying his locks. He reached out to push back a few stray dyed-pink hairs, while Kevin rolled his eyes and pulled back. Robin flinched. He let his hand linger for a few seconds, before cradling his hand to his chest. Kevin asked:

“You didn’t read the results?”

His heart stopped. Robin clutched at his chest, as a cold sweat swept over him, and a wave of dizziness swept over him . . . he swayed, he gasped . . . tears returned as he thought: this is it. Kevin shot forward. He eased Robin to sit on the stairwell, while a forced smile broke across his pale cheeks, and somehow – as if of one mind – both men looked to Alisa. She was confused. The way her brow furrowed and her lips pressed, as well as the way she wrung out the towels held low on his waist . . . Alisa had no idea of the results.

Robin waited. Kevin waited. They both turned their gazes back at each other, as a flicker of hope passed over Robin . . . every breath slowed, as he counted seven on each inhalation and each exhalation . . . Kevin knelt beside him. The smile returned, even as Warsman slowly slid into a chair beside the bureau and Alisa paced with barely restrained sobs. Kevin waved a hand dismissively in the air, as he cricked his neck and said with a long sigh:

“You know they said that you’re my father, right?”

“They – They did?”

“Yeah, they did.” Kevin groaned. “For fuck’s sake, Daddy, you look like you’re about ready to have a heart-attack. Warsman and I got the results last week; you’re biologically my father, which means we can go back to normal . . . that starts with you slapping me for swearing.”

“No . . . no, it doesn’t. It starts with me telling you that I love you.”

Robin threw his arms around Kevin. He yanked him close, enough to knock him off-balance, and soon Kevin was forced to hold onto him, lest his crash down against the stairs. The cold sweat on Robin was washed away with something warm, while his heart slowed even with the rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins, and he breathed deep the scent of Kevin’s shampoo and cologne, simply as it was a part of Kevin . . . _his son_. He parted just enough to press a kiss to an exposed forehead, even with his mask separating lips from skin.

“We didn’t receive a copy,” whispered Robin. “We’ve been waiting for you, so we could hear them together as a family, and I – I’ve . . . I’ve been unable to sleep. I’ve just been so worried about what you’d say! I’m so relieved. I’m so relieved I’m still your daddy.”

“Will you still be relieved when I say we might have to crash here for a while?” Kevin shrugged. “We – We’ve decided to live in London, but we don’t have a place ready yet, so we were kind of hoping you’d lend us a few rooms. If it’s a problem, Grandfather Knight said that we could stay over there for a while. I don’t want to be a bother.”

“You – You want to stay in England?”

“I think it’s time we were a real family again. You’re my daddy, after all.”

Robin hugged again. He held tight onto Kevin, even as he struggled and spluttered and complained that he was no longer a child, and – in the corners of his eyes – Alisa hunched forward with tears of her own, before crossing herself and whispering ‘thank you’. The words became like a mantra . . . _‘thank you, thank you, thank you’_. Robin eventually parted, but he held firm to Kevin’s upper arms so that he could memorise every inch of him, as he swore:

“We’re a family, son . . .”

* * *

“So this is your childhood room?”

Warsman slowly walked about the bedroom. The old shirt barely covered his extended abdomen, with the final few buttons undone instead of stretched to breaking point, and his pyjama bottoms straddled dangerously low about his hipbones. A thick layer of dust marked the display cabinets and desktop, while the carpet bore a musty scent that even the open window did little to help. It would take time to clean and organise.

The double-bed sat on a platform in a far corner, with the room split into two distinct halves and each half larger than his entire childhood home. Warsman hummed. The one side was clearly designed for sleep, with the brick archway marking the entrance into a training-cum-study area that was filled to the brim for what was – at the time – state-of-the-art equipment. He opened the other two sets of windows, before walking around the perimeter of the bedroom, and stopped just before a series of floor-to-ceiling bookcases by his desk.

Warsman rubbed circles over his abdomen. The baby restarted its kicking motions, although high enough that it brought a burst of indigestion. He groaned, as he rocked back and forth on his feet in hopes of soothing the unborn child, and ran his fingers over the spines of the books one by one with a smile that reached his eyes. Warsman turned his head. Kevin stood clad only in his pyjama bottoms, with a sheen of water on his skin from the bath. Warsman said:

“You seem to have been an avid reader.”

“No, not really,” spat Kevin.

Kevin strode across the room, with bare feet slapping against the carpet. He stopped just a few inches from Warsman, enough that the feeling of warmth brushed against his arm, and his breath caught in his throat, as his member stirred from instinct. Warsman screwed shut his eyes, while his hands scratched at his stomach. A burst of nausea mingled with desire. He forced slow and deep breaths, while Kevin huffed and placed his hands on hips.

It was difficult to reconcile the many books with the claim of disliking books. Kevin reached out and pulled one towards him, before flicking through the pages and dropping it to the floor, and proceeded to take another one with a harsh yanking gesture. He opened to a random page, only to throw it over his shoulder with a ‘blergh’ sound. Warsman rolled his eyes. He stepped to the side, while Kevin continued to pull out more books and leave them discarded chaotically about the floor of the bedroom. Warsman waved a hand absently in the air.

“The bookcases are all double-stacked,” said Warsman.

“Do you notice anything about these books?” Kevin narrowed his eyes. “Oh, look, it’s the _Anatomy of the Human Body_. Oh, do you see this one? This one is _1001 Wrestling Techniques_. I remember being read this one night in place of a story: _A Nutritional Diet_. I don’t think I have any children’s books, at least not since I was very young.”

“I see. He was as strict then as he ever was, I assume?”

“Oh, you don’t know the fucking half of it. Do you see this one?” Kevin tossed a book. “It was always too advanced for a toddler. And this piece of shit?” Kevin tossed another. “I hated that everyone else was reading _Harry Potter_ and I had to read this crap.”

Kevin threw another and another and another. Warsman shook his head and carefully walked towards the bed, still covered with sheets with pictures of wrestlers designed for a child, and he awkwardly sat at the very edge, while several of the books made it as far as the door. They struck with a loud bang, while Kevin looked set on decimating the entire bookcase. A knock eventually sounded at the door. Kevin froze. Warsman held onto a few barely suppressed chuckles, as Kevin clutched hard at one of the books and turned around. Robin called out:

_‘Is everything okay in there, Kevin?’_

“I’m just pointing out what a terrible father you were, Daddy!”

_‘Well, nothing out of the ordinary, then. Goodnight, son!’_

Warsman choked back his laughter. The sarcasm was so thick that he could taste it, but Kevin – knuckles white around an encyclopaedia – narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips, while every breath came out in a thick hiss. He tossed the book straight at the door. It left a small indent, before it fell with a broken spine and a flutter of pages to the carpet. The curtains to the bedroom fluttered in the breeze, while letting in a steady stream of noise from London traffic and honks of the black cabs. Kevin dragged his feet towards the bed and muttered:

“Why’re we even sharing a room anyway?”

A low hum escaped Warsman. He climbed into the bed and slid over to the side nearest the wall, where he pulled the blankets up to his chin and held them over his ‘mouth’, and – with his helmet removed – blond hair fell messily about the pillow like a halo. A long body-pillow rested the length of the bed, dividing it into two halves so that neither man could touch. Warsman was grateful for the gift from Alisa, even if it was not being used for its intended purpose of easing his body during the pregnancy, and closed his eyes for several seconds.

“He believes that we are not related,” said Warsman.

“He has to know the truth, Nikolai.”

“Indeed, I am inclined to agree.” Warsman rolled his head to the side “I do feel that he intentionally waited for you to tell him the results, so he could simply run with whatever option you presented him, but – alas – I cannot prove that. I think this is for the best, in any case. We can always break up later on, if this weight of the truth is too heavy to bear.”

“Yeah, but this isn’t about us . . . how can – how can he be so _desperate_ for my approval that he would willingly live in denial, pretending like we’re just an ordinary couple, all so he doesn’t risk losing me when I wouldn’t leave him, anyway? It’s unhealthy.”

“In that case, why did you lie to him in turn? You agreed to live his lie.”

“I – I didn’t want to lose him, either.”

Kevin dropped down on the mattress. He buried his face into his hands, while his fingers entwined themselves with his blond locks, and he hunched forward enough that Warsman could rake his eyes over the muscles of his back. A hint of buttocks was visible over his pyjama bottoms, and Warsman – with hormones running high – struggled to control the growing erection that throbbed beneath the sheets . . . _‘Гавно_’. Warsman squirmed. He threw his forearm over his eyes, while he muttered a series of curses under his breath.

“I don’t know whether to offer to help,” teased Kevin.

Warsman peeked from beneath his arm. He said nothing, although one eye widened as if lifting an eyebrow, and a low hiss of breath escaped his breath, while Kevin lay down beside him on the mattress. The sheets were pulled up just over his waist, as he lay on his side and looked Warsman dead in the eyes with a trembling smile. Kevin’s hands would twitch. They moved towards the prominent bulge in the sheets, before moving back towards his chest, and they followed the same pattern until finally he dropped his hand with a groan.

“What’re we doing?” Kevin asked.

“I wish I knew,” said Warsman. “I am still attracted to you, and – by law – I believe anything we do is legal, as Robin is your father and I am unrelated. Still, this is complicated by the fact that _we_ know of our biological connection, and we have many ethical and moral considerations that must be given weight. I still feel rather conflicted.”

“I know what you bloody mean. I _hate_ that Mother put me in the position, and it makes me . . . well . . . I know I shouldn’t judge her, but I do still blame her and I can’t help but feel I’ll never be able to look at her the same way again. I’m just . . . I’m so fucking _angry_.”

“Ironic, this has strengthened your relationship with your father –”

“– but royally fucked up my relationship with my mother.”

“I thought – perhaps – we could work out how we feel for now, but live a chaste relationship without any sexual component, and if we do decide to try and continue . . . we need to be certain that we cannot have any more children, else we cannot be sexual. We cannot risk another child borne from incest, and if this child were to have any problems –”

Warsman let out an audible swallow. He lifted his arms above the sheets and duvet, so that he could drop his hands over the large bump, and – as he pressed them as close as he could with the fabric in between – a tear broke at the corner of his eye. Kevin put his hand over his, until their fingers entwined and rested over their unborn son together. A few footsteps echoed out from outside. They paused at the door. Warsman chuckled as he caught snippets of a whispered conversation, before someone was made to move away. Kevin asked:

“So . . . do you want to be friends?”

A pregnant pause fell between them. Warsman struggled to turn onto his side, but the body pillow – much to his relief – helped with the position and was soon hugged against him, while Kevin laughed and pushed back a lock of blond hair. The mask that covered his half-robotic face brought a long sigh, as it hid the wince and the flicker of tears to his organic eye. Kevin placed a chaste kiss to his cheek. It was impossible to feel beneath the metal, but the movement of the bedsprings and warmth of his breath made Warsman smile.

“We can start as friends,” agreed Warsman.

“And then what?” Kevin bit into his lip. “If it turns out we can’t be more than friends, so we break up and just say that we couldn’t make it work? If it turns out we can be more than friends, do we . . . you know . . . date again from scratch? I guess we’d have to get our tubes tied or a vasectomy or something, before we started being physical again, too?”

“I think . . . I think we cross that bridge when we get to it.”

“So you _are_ thinking about getting ‘to it’, then?”

“It is all I think about.” Warsman blushed. “Still, it is a lot of pressure to put upon us to _expect _that, especially if we do grow to feel differently about matters. We can spend the next few months just being co-parents and friends, before perhaps we try to date . . . if that leads to a physical union, I would not be opposed, and I may even encourage that.”

“But we tell _no one_, right? I mean, people can know about us being an item, but no one can know that we’re biologically related . . . we just . . . we go back to the status quo, okay? We slowly work our way back to the way we were, and if we can’t . . .”

“If we cannot, that is a problem for another day.”

Warsman took Kevin’s hand. He brought it to his mask, where he delivered a mock kiss, and gently – with a slow and steady movement – placed it between them on the pillow, while their foreheads pressed together and they shared in the same breaths. The breeze from the windows brushed over Kevin’s skin, bringing goose-bumps and small shivers. Warsman threw the duvet over him and nuzzled as close as the pillow would allow.

“We will do this together,” said Warsman.

“Together,” swore Kevin.


	12. Chapter 12

“Aww, ain’t he a cutie!”

Kid sat on the fold-out chair. The small newborn was wrapped in soft blankets, with the edge of the yellow fabric tucked beneath his chin, and a burst of blond hair fell about his head, as his blue eyes occasionally fluttered open with unfocussed gazes. A soft touch to the black skin of his chin brought soft giggles, as tiny fists fought against the swaddling cloth. Kid laughed and bounced him with whispered words of affection.

Mantaro rested his hands on the back of the chair, as he leaned forward for a better look, but his face was just an inch or two from Kid, enough to feel its warmth. Kid scoffed, before pushing a hand against Mantaro’s face and forcing him back a step. The baby stirred with the sudden movement. It was all that was needed for Mantaro to throw himself forward, forcing himself back into their personal space, as he muttered endlessly . . . _‘Is he okay? Why did he make that noise? Should I shout for Kevin?’_ . . . Kid groaned.

The newborn smiled. It may have been a yawn, but his organic mouth opened wide. Mantaro fell silent. Kid nervously laughed. The gesture should have been adorable, but – with his mechanical and cybernetic eyes and nose – there was something eerie about it . . . technology blending almost seamlessly with biology, as he stared upward. A few seconds ticked by, until the upbeat energy returned and Mantaro slapped Kid on the back and smiled.

“Hey, quit hogging him,” said Mantaro.

“He’s got a name, dude!”

“Yeah, well, Viktor Mask is a stupid name.” Mantaro pulled a funny face. “I want to see if I can make him laugh! How long until he can sit up? My dad always used to play horsey with me and carry me around the nursery, and Jacqui says her brother did the same. I want to teach him to wrestle, too, and can we dress him up? I want to dress him up!”

“He ain’t a doll, Mantaro. You can’t just dress him up!”

“Why the hell not? I want him to look his best!”

“Because I already dressed him up, doofus!”

Mantaro sat on the adjacent fold-out chair. The scent of sweat and blood was heavy in the air of the training room, while a series of grunts echoed out from between Kevin and Mars, and – as a heavy thud brought a wince from the child – Jade called out a countdown. He stared down at the stopwatch in his hand, while his free arm went up and down in time for the count, and Kid tilted his head with a furrowed brow. Mars still could break out of the hold.

The grip on Viktor loosened, just enough for Mantaro to swiftly sweep his hands beneath Viktor and swooped him up into an intimate hold . . . _‘hey, support his neck an’ watch his head, idiot’ _. . . Kid held his hands in the air just above Viktor. If he tried to snatch the baby back, it would only cause Kevin to lash out at the both of them for fighting over a newborn, but – as he made to adjust Mantaro’s fingers – Mantaro managed to hold Viktor to perfection, even managing to rest the head over his heart to help ease him. Mantaro chirped:

“Is that why he looks like a freaking rodeo clown?”

“Hey, he’s the cutest little cowpoke ever!”

“Dude, he looks like the ‘before’ of a makeover show.” Mantaro bounced the baby upright against his chest. It was a far cry from Kid’s classic cradling position. “I got an old suit of my dad’s though, and my mom stitched him like a little mini-suit! There was enough left over that she could make another; you know, for when Jacqui and I have one.”

“Ew, it ain’t that yellow ensemble, is it?” Kid folded his arms and crossed his legs. “The kid’s got like cyborg eyes! If you make him wear that, he’ll go all blind an’ stuff. Nah, I got him a little hat just like mah papa, an’ it’s gonna make him look like a star.”

“The only cowboy your ‘papa’ passes as is one of the Village People.”

“Least mah papa wasn’t mistaken for a pig.”

They glared hard at one another. A floorboard creaked above, as someone walked about the floors above of the old manor house, and the wind rattled at the glass doors, which overlooked a vast amount of green land filled with carefully maintained flowerbeds. Kid turned to cast his eyes over the ring centre of the training room, where Kevin and Mars stood in their respective corners and downed bottles of water. Mantaro – still holding Viktor – leaned into Kid’s personal space and blew a raspberry. Terry slapped him. 

Mantaro widened his eyes and opened his mouth. A bruise would likely appear beneath his mask, and Kid – with a wince – scratched at his neck and turned to mutter his apologies, only for Mantaro to fidget and fuss with the baby in his arms. Kid smiled. There was no way that Mantaro could retaliate with a newborn in – . . . _Mantaro head-butted him_. A searing pain ran through his nose, as his vision sparked with colour, and Kid cried out a loud ‘fuck’.

“If you two dare to bloody fight with my boy in your arms -!”

The two of them jumped apart, leaving now a two-seat gap between them. Kid tilted back his head, as he blinked back tears and checked several times for blood, and Kevin – jumping over the ropes – stalked towards them with his now bare chest slicked with sweat. He ignored Kid and stood before Mantaro. The tension in his muscles immediately dropped away from him, as he leaned down to scoop Viktor into his arms and said in a high-pitched voice:

“How is my little angel, anyway?”

Kevin held him high, as if somehow presenting him to the world. Viktor giggled until his little laughter turned into a loud sneeze, and then the sneeze – surprising the small boy – turned into a loud wail, as Kevin held him against his chest and bounced him. A series of slow shushing noises echoed out over the hall, even over Mars and Jade as they fought in the ring and Kid struggled to hold back laughter, as Mantaro muttered that _‘aren’t shushing noises meant to be soothing and quiet’_? Kid leaned back and smiled.

“He might need changing,” said Mantaro.

“Ah think he needs feedin’, too.”

“So why didn’t you two knuckle-heads do that?” Kevin lifted Viktor high and sniffed. “No, he doesn’t need changing yet, but – _yes_ – he does need to be fed . . . you do both know – for two guys fighting over who gets to be godfather – a child only two weeks old can’t feed himself, right? Have you at least warmed the bottle? I need his bottle.”

“Oh. Oh, I remember!” Mantaro winked and gave a v-sign. “We use a sterilised bottle and fill it with formula per the instructions and then test it by squirting some on out wrist, and then – once he’d fed – he needs to be burped and to be careful not to hit too hard!”

“Okay, so where’s his pissing bottle?”

“Well, ah, that is . . .”

Mantaro and Kid shared a look. Kid slid over a few chairs and whispered _‘where is it_?’, only to get whispered back in his ear _‘I thought you had it_’, and – as their whispered comments turned into muttered complaints – soon they slapped at each other’s hands. The cries of Viktor grew louder, made worse as Kevin yelled in response to their bickering, and soon the room was a cacophony of insults and grunts and cries. Kid brought his hands to his ears, as he started to sing an old country song in his attempt to ignore Mantaro, until a voice called out:

“I have a bottle with me.”

Everyone fell silent.

Jade and Mars continued to wrestler, while all other eyes turned to the doorway. The door grand doors were opened wide, where the hallway behind illuminated the figure that waited for entrance, and – as his eyes adjusted – Kid made out the figure of Warsman. The baby-weight still clung to his abdomen, stubbornly refusing to move, and the stretch-marks were hidden by a polo-neck sweater. Warsman limped towards them, enough that Mantaro asked:

“How come you’re walking like that?”

A faint blush seemed to cross Warsman’s cheeks, although – with the mask – Kid dismissed it as a part of his imagination, and he lifted his hand with a half-hearted wave, as Warsman took Viktor into his arms and sat beside them on the chairs. He sat with legs parted wide, while he leaned back and fed Viktor from the bottle. The newborn suckled in earnest, with little hands fighting still against the swaddling cloth, as Kevin stretched above them.

“I may have opted for a vasectomy,” said Warsman.

Kevin choked. He hunched over, as he gasped for air and gestured for water, and Mars – breaking in the ring – tossed a bottle over to him, which he gulped down as if in competition with his newborn son. Warsman chuckled, while Mantaro nudged Kid and nodded towards them with a shrug and a frown. Kid shrugged back. The huge room was quiet save for the sparring match, although Alisa laughed in the garden with her mother-in-law, and Kid looked around at the generations worth of medals and trophies that lined the walls. He asked:

“Ain’t it a bit early to do that?”

“Yeah, what if you both want more kids,” said Mantaro.

“Well, we have both decided that will not be the case.” Warsman nodded. “The blood results revealed that we are not related, but – due to that scare – it forced us to reassess some things and prioritise what we want from this relationship. We decided that in order to continue forward, that we need to make certain that we will not have more children.”

“One’s more than enough,” added Kevin.

“I know I was so perfect that my mom and dad stopped trying,” teased Mantaro.

“And Viktor is perfect, that’s for sure,” said Kid.

“I think there’ll be enough children overall, anyway,” continued Kevin. “Kid sows his wild oats like he’s attempting to fertilise half of Japan, and Mantaro has hardly kept it secret that he wants a large family . . . I wouldn’t be surprised if Mars and Jade had a few, too. In any case, we only need one child to continue the Mask name. The Robin name is covered.”

“I must thank you all for coming, too.” Warsman nodded. “We did not expect so many people to visit for the birth of our child, but all my friends have been here to support me and not one of Kevin’s friends has missed the occasion. We appreciate your kindness.”

“But not so much the clothes you gifted Viktor.”

Warsman lightly kicked at Kevin. The laughter from him was muffled by his mask, but it was gentle and the rumble through his chest soothed Viktor, whose cybernetic eyes slowly unfocussed and the light in the artificial one turned off as sleep overtook him. Kid smiled. The bottle remained in Viktor’s mouth, but – despite his sleep – Viktor grumbled any time Warsman attempted to remove it from his lips. Kevin sat next to them, pulling his chair close, so that he could drape an arm around Warsman and stroke at blond hair. Kid teased:

“He’s still cuter than either of you two.”

“Yeah, well, how hard is that?” Mantaro laughed. “Can you imagine if the kid had Warsman’s scary smile and Kevin’s mean old stare? I’m just hoping he doesn’t get a bear claw and a back tattoo, as he could be twice as much work as either of them!”

“And in a fur-trimmed coat and leather trousers? So lame.”

“Yeah, even more lame than your pops’ cowboy hat.”

Kid slapped at Mantaro’s head. The two of them opened their mouths to argue, but stopped when they heard the soft sobs from Kevin, who leaned down to press a kiss to the forehead of his firstborn child, even with his mask separating skin from skin. Warsman was soon able to remove the bottle, where he cradled Viktor to his chest, and Kevin broke through the swaddling cloth so as to hold the small and wrinkled hand. It was a beautiful sight. Mantaro stole a photograph and Kid smiled to see how many likes it made in just a few minute.

“Yo, Kevin,” Mars called. “You coming back into the ring or what?”

Kevin did not even look to the ring. It was as if the world were nothing but the two parents and their beautiful newborn child, as they gazed with awe at his slowly rising and falling chest, and touched and stroked at every part of skin in reach, as they whispered in their native tongues words of love and adoration. Kevin soon angled his head towards the ring, where Kid could practically feel the smile, and he glanced to Mars hanging from the ropes.

“I think I’m happy right here,” said Kevin.


	13. Epilogue

** **

“So,” said Masaru. “How’d I look?”

He spun around with hands on hips. A sharp draught blew across the courtyard, where it tousled his mop of red hair and reddened his cheeks beneath his mask, and – with a shudder – he tugged at pulled at the black-and-red leotard once worn by his father. The gauntlets were uncomfortable and caught awkwardly at the fin on his head, enough that he limited his stretches and wild gesticulation, and the flared parts of the trousers were impractical in battle.

Alexander barely looked towards the young prince, as he sat on the bleachers with his white helmet held between his thighs and continued to polish it with an old cloth. The leather trousers were held together with lace from ankles to crotch, while his old shirt billowed out like something from another century, and yet his eyes – piercingly blue – were enough to make Masaru shiver and blush. Terry Junior grunted from the ring nearby, while Gazelleman barked out orders with his arms folded over his instructors’ uniform.

“I find it hard to believe even Mantaro wore _that_,” said Alex.

Mantaro huffed and kicked at the dirt. He spun around and posed, with right hand in a mock salute and left firmly on his hip, but Alex – polishing the familiar helmet sans spike – showed no signs of interest and refused to look in his direction. Masaru slumped forward. A low groan escaped his throat, before it turned into a loud and high-pitched whine. He stamped a foot and threw his hands behind his neck, and proceeded to kick at the dirt. Little dust clouds drifted over to the bleachers where Alex sat. Alex quirked an eyebrow, as Masaru spat:

“My pops is the best, you’re just jealous!”

“Ah, yes, quite,” teased Alex. “Robin Alexander, son of Robin Prince and grandson of Robin Mask . . . the Bloodless Knight of England . . . is jealous of a boy that is still trying on his daddy’s clothes in hopes of making a good impression on his first day of school. You’re so adorable, aren’t you? I could just eat you up, Kinniku Masaru.”

“Oi, shut it! You – You’re a year younger than me!”

“And yet many years wiser, old chap.”

“Look, can you just be nice for _once_ in your life?” Masaru rolled his eyes. “This is going to be the start of something amazing! We’re doing to be trained by the Legends and the New Generation, and . . . come on, admit it; that’s kind of cool. We could go down in history as the greatest wrestlers that ever lived, but it all starts here . . . today . . .”

“Man, you’re such a hopeless romantic. You wouldn’t be so happy if it was _your_ family teaching here. You just get a nice little vacation as a royal, but I’ve got Grandfather Mask and Uncle Warsman breathing down my neck, like . . . do you know what those old gits are like?”

“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me _again_ and _again_ and _again_.”

“Oh, bite me, you wanker,” said Alex.

Alexander rolled his eyes, as he slammed on his helmet. The ‘eyes’ on the black mesh were painted red, just like the mask his grandfather wore, and the helmet itself may as well have been identical, except the lack of the spikes of his forefathers. Alex flipped the long brown plait over his shoulder, until it dangled over his back and leather coat. Masaru blushed and rocked back and forth on his feet, while Alex leaned forward with forearms on his legs, and Masaru looked away to see that they were still spread. A voice called out:

“Are you two arguing again?”

Masaru and Alexander turned around. There – with shaggy red hair and blue eyes – stood a familiar face . . . Masaru squealed. He ran over to Jordis and threw himself against her, as his arms wrapped around her shoulders, and her green helmet and uniform reflected back in his eyes, making them appear greener than ever before. Jordis laughed and pushed him back, while she waved over to Alexander and shouted ‘hello’ with a heavy accent. Alexander grunted and leaned back. Masaru jumped up and down while holding Jordis’ hands.

“You seem almost as excited as this idiot,” said Alex.

“I am so glad to be here,” chirped Jordis. “I heard Ramenman and Buffaloman are teaching some of the theory classes! Do you think I can get an autograph? They must be so old now, but they still have s much to give back to the younger generations. It is impressive!”

“Tell that to Alex; dude is sulking because he has Uncle Warsman watching him like a hawk, but . . . dude . . . _dude_! I saw Dead Signal and Mammothman last week, and just this morning Checkmate was telling me that he’s teaching some of the practical classes! Plus, I know I’d kill to be taught by Fiona or Okan. It’s so awesome here!”

“Are you two done with the fangasms?” Alex asked.

“Are you done with being a ‘wanker’?”

A loud burst of laughter exploded from Alexander. He clutched at his stomach, while he threw back his head and exposed the length of his neck, and Masaru – swallowing hard – turned away with a pout and arms folded across his chest. Jordis chuckled behind her hand, as she nudged Masaru towards Alexander and sat down beside him on the bleachers. He remained standing, even as he swung around and drew patterns in the dirt, and Alexander reached out to kick him with the point of his boot, as he said through laughter:

“Impressive, you’re learning the lingo!”

“I learn from the best,” said Masaru.

Alexander continued to laugh. Masaru pouted, as he spun around and around and around, but then – on a final turn – something caught his eye . . . _an older chojin_. They were a few years older than Masaru, perhaps twenty at most, but the mop of blond hair stood out among chojin from all across the globe and all variety of age groups. The figure-hugging coat stopped just above his buttocks, but revealed perfect muscles and a perfect shape . . .

Masaru stopped dead, while he swallowed hard. There was an air similar to Mr Barracuda, while the man held himself with perfect posture and exuded an air of confidence, and he chatted away to Buffaloman as if the decades upon decades between them were no obstacle in the least. Masaru leaned forward, as if it could somehow help with a better look. The man turned. The top half of his face was robotic in nature, with a piercing blue eye visible even from the sheer distance, while his organic mouth chatted away with plump lips.

“Hey, who’s that guy over there?”

“He looks part robo-chojin,” said Jordis.

“So he’s got to be Viktor Mask then, right? Right!”

A spark of adrenaline coursed though him. He ignored the low moan from Alexander, who buried his face in his hands and held his head between his legs, and he waved wildly in the direction of Viktor and Buffaloman. Masaru jumped higher and higher, until Jordis offered him the old cloth that still sat on the bleachers. He took it and waved it high. Buffaloman waved back, but Viktor carried on talking as if nothing were amiss. Masaru shouted:

“Yo, Viktor! Come over here, bro!”

Viktor looked him in the eyes. He turned away. A loud squeak escaped Masaru, who clasped his hands to his chest and dropped his mouth wide open. Alexander patted him on the back, before dragging him back and pulling him onto the bleacher, and – still open-mouthed – Masaru continued to stare with a series of scoffs and splutters. A muscular arm draped itself over his shoulders, while Jordis – on the other side of Alex – swung her legs and bobbed her head in time to some unheard beat. Masaru rushed out in a high-pitched voice:

“Man, what’s got his goat?”

“I hear he has been bullied a lot,” said Jordis. “It is common among robo-chojin, which is why I think he attended a school in Russia ran by his father, and do not forget that his other father is _the_ Kevin Mask. They have a manor house in England, am I right?”

“So he’s a spoiled, rich brat? Why am I not surprised?”

“Says the prince,” said Alex drily.

“Hey, my parents made me _earn_ all my treats and presents.” Masaru glared at Viktor. “Momma always made me do my chores, and Pops always wanted me to have the advantages that he lacked . . . independence, maturity, understanding . . . but _look_ at that guy! Sure, he might have big muscles and a tight butt and bright eyes, but he –”

“You seriously have a crush on _Viktor_?”

“What? No way. Look at him! He’s so stuffy, I bet he never even smiles.”

Viktor turned. It was eerie, as if he heard despite the twenty feet or more between them. A large smile broke across his lips and exposed his teeth and tongue, and – with a shudder – Masaru was reminded of old footage from old fights . . . _‘when he smiles, blood will be shed’_. Viktor cocked his head and licked his lips, before he turned away with shoulder shaking as if with laughter. A cold sweat broke over Masaru, who hugged tightly at his chest.

“Okay, that was creepy,” said Masaru.

“Yeah, well, that’s what you get for chasing after _him_.” Alex huffed. “I have a far better career record, and I’m the one who’s the British Champion, and do you chaps pay me any kind of mind -? Well, whatever . . . yo, Viktor! I’m over here!”

Masaru yelped. He slapped wildly at Alexander’s hands, even as Alexander kept raising them high to catch the attention of Viktor, and – before long – Masaru was practically lying upon Alexander, while he tried to hold down those arms and those same arms fought to be lifted as high as possible. Jordis dived out of their way, while they tousled and tumbled down onto the dirt, and soon Masaru sat astride Alexander with folded arms and a pout, while Viktor slowly walked towards them with a wave back. Masaru leaned down to whisper in an ear:

“What the frig are you doing?”

“You forgot that he’s my cousin, didn’t you?” Alex smirked. “Our fathers were twins; Kevin was given the Mask name to start a new lineage, but my father was given the Robin name and hoped to continue it on . . . even if Grandfather Mask was disowned by his father. I guess Grandfather Knight couldn’t bear to not have his name passed down, though, so . . .”

“So he gave everything to Kevin Mask? That’s why Viktor is spoiled?”

“No, he split everything evenly between both our families. If anything, I was the spoiled one . . . our great-grandfather on our grandmother’s side left everything to my father, because he married a human, and Uncle Kevin didn’t get a single penny and –”

Alex fell silent. It was hard to see his expression behind his mask, so Masaru tried to tilt the mask away from his face, only to be slapped hard and rolled onto his back, and Alexander took a turn to sit astride him, only to stand after a few seconds with a scoff. The standing gesture was a just in time, as Masaru struggled to hide a certain growing part of his anatomy in response to an attractive friend pressed against him. He crossed his legs and remained on the ground, refusing to take the hand that was offered to him. 

“And what?” Masaru frowned. “Come on, tell me! I want to hear all the gossip. I thought we were like – you know – childhood friends or whatever . . . that guy thinks he’s so much better than us, just because he’s handsome and rich and whatever, but we all know he’s a jerk and –”

Jordis cleared her throat.

“– who just ignores an invite to hang out anyway? Ugh. He sucks!”

A loud cough echoed out behind him. Masaru tilted back his head, where – high above him – Viktor smirked and winked . . . _he winked_. A hot burst of electricity shot through every nerve in his body, as Masaru scrambled to his feet and raced back to the bleachers, where he snatched up an anatomy textbook and held it over his lap. He flicked rapidly through the page, until he found one relevant to their upcoming lessons, and pretended to study.

Alexander burst into laughter, before he strolled over with arms held wide. He leaned forward, until the point of his mask – just above his lips – pressed against Masaru’s ear, and he tapped hard on the book still rested on Masaru’s lap. It pushed awkwardly against his erection, drawing out a low groan, as Alexander whispered: _‘he’s straight, moron, else I wouldn’t have brought him over here to be subjected to you’. _Alexander stood straight and slapped a hand on Masaru’s shoulder, as he nodded back to his cousin and said in a loud voice:

“Viktor Mask meet Kinniku Masaru.”

“That is an interesting name,” said Viktor.

“My – ah – dad was . . .” Masaru audibly swallowed. “My dad wasn’t really a fan of puns, but my granddad loved them and my dad’s name was a pun . . . Kinnikuman Taro . . . Kinniku Mantaro . . . I guess my dad wanted to honour him before he died, because that really knocked him for six and Grandpa was sick for – . . . sorry, I’m babbling, aren’t I?”

“I would be happy to hear more.”

“Y-You – You would?”

“Sure, even a handsome and rich jerk has some manners.”

Masaru groaned . . . _he had heard every word_. Alexander huffed and returned to his seat, while Jordis called over Terry Junior and waved a book in his direction, and Viktor – with that eerie smile – slid beside Masaru and looked him over . . . the appreciative hum sent a shiver down Masaru’s spine. He looked to Alexander, who sat with arms and legs crossed at some distance, and his head gaze was fixated at a distant spot, as if he barely knew them.

He opened his mouth to ask after Alexander, but Viktor took his chin in a callused hand and forced him to turn his head back to him . . . _blue eye, dark skin, a killer smile _. . . Masaru pressed his book harder downwards, while he leaned forward with a trembling smile. Viktor chuckled and pulled back his hand with a lingering touch. Out of instinct, Masaru stroked at the spot where their skin met, and – as a deep blush swept over his cheeks – Viktor took his hand and brought it to his lips, where he placed a soft kiss to his palm.

“It’s good to meet you, Kinniku Masaru.”

“Y-You too, Viktor Mask.”


End file.
